


Return to Russia

by Natasha_Barton



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Barton/pseuds/Natasha_Barton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha's years of training never prepared her for the things she's experienced lately. Despite her initial resolve to stay home, she finds herself being called back to Russia, only this time, she won't be going alone. With a secret society on the loose, a planned attack, and a ticking clock, will Natasha be able to get the job done in time? [sequel to The Mission]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            It’s been eight days since Dmitri died. Five days ago, I received some devastating news and finally had to come clean to my husband. It’s been tough, but life is slowly getting back to “normal.” Well, more of a new normal. Now that the—my—our—baby is officially gone and I’ve received a series of antidotes for the chemicals Dmitri sent coursing through my system, my physical wellbeing is increasing. My mental health, however, is still suffering. I refuse to go into work, opting to stay in bed and binge-watch Netflix to take my mind off things. Clint’s been trying to engage me in conversations, get me to do something, _anything_ , but I just can’t. My thoughts continue to return to the mistakes I’ve made in the past month, the things I could have done to avoid the pain I’ve experienced, and the heartbreaking look on our friend’s faces when we told them we—I—lost the baby.

            “Natasha?” Clint knocks gently on the doorframe between our bedroom and the hallway. “Nick called again. He’s getting more and more persistent.”

            “Tell him I’ll call him back later,” I respond absently.

            “Sweetie, I’ve been telling him that for four days now. You’ll have to talk to him eventually.”

            “I’ll do it later. I just…” I sigh heavily, “I just can’t talk to anyone right now. I don’t want their sympathy.”

            “You don’t have to tell him exactly what’s wrong, but he refuses to accept excuses for your absence from me. He’s worried about you.”

            “I’m fine,” I snap. “Tell him to stop worrying, and I’ll let him know when I’m ready to come back to work.”

            Clint quietly retreats from the room, not wanting to antagonize me further. I know he’s just trying to get me up and out of the house again, but he doesn’t understand what I’m going through. There’s no way he even _could_ understand it. My eyes well with tears again, so I start the next episode of whatever show I’m watching, desperate for an escape from reality. It doesn’t really matter what it is, I just need the noise, the distraction. A few episodes later, Clint’s back.

            “Nat? I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner? I love cooking, but you haven’t left the house in quite a while.”

            “What did you have in mind?” I pause Netflix and actually turn to look at him this time.

            “We could always try that new oriental place that opened up downtown. I know how much you love stir-fry.”

            “Okay.” I stand up, my joints stiff, and head for the door.

            “Uh, Nat? You might want to get dressed first.”

            I glance down at my baggy pajamas and realize he’s right. How long has it been since I last put actual clothes on? This concerns me, and I gently shake my head to dispel the thought. “Give me a minute.”

            The food is pretty good, but things are tense at our table. Still not wanting to really talk much, I deflect Clint’s questions.

            “So, what have you been watching today?” he attempts to ask casually, but his voice is strained.

            “Don’t know.”

            “You don’t know? You must’ve watched half a season by now.”

            “Oh, you’re going to judge me for how much TV I’ve watched?” I raise my voice slightly, rage filling me much faster than it used to.

            “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.” His voice is hushed; no doubt he wants to avoid making a scene.

            “Really? ‘Cause that’s what it sounded like! I’m sorry that I’m going through a lot right now. You can’t even begin to imagine how I feel.”

            “I know this is tough for you—I’m not insinuating anything different. Can we please not fight about this?”

            “You started this,” I huff, arms crossed.

            “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Clint sighs. “I’ll get the check and then we can go.”

            “Do what you want. I’ll find my own way home.” I pick up my purse and storm out of the restaurant. After angrily pacing the sidewalk for a minute or so, I decide to walk home, suddenly very grateful I put on tennis shoes. This turns out to be a great idea, as exercise generally helps me clear my mind. By the time I get home, I’ve figured out a temporary solution.

            “There you are! Did you _walk_ home?” Clint exclaims when I finally come in the front door.

            “I did,” I reply tersely. I walk right past him and up the stairs to our room, where I grab a small suitcase out of my closet.

            “Nat? What’s going on?” Clint follows close behind me.

            “This isn’t working.”

            “ _What_ isn’t working?”

            “This! I… I need some space. I’m going to stay with Jenna and Steve for a few days.” I carelessly throw clothes into the suitcase.

            “Natasha, we can work this out, just give it time!” Clint pleads.

            “I can’t stay in this house anymore! I need a break from all of this. Every time I see you, grief is etched all over your face. That’s why I can hardly look at you; each reminder of what we lost reopens the gaping wound I feel in my chest. I know you want me to just bounce back and act like it never happened, but I can’t. So please, give me a little space to figure out how I can live with this.”

            “Okay. But you have to know I _never_ expected you to just ‘bounce back.’ This past month has been incredibly traumatic for you, and all I want is for you to feel better. If a little distance is what will help, then so be it. Please, let me know as soon as you’re ready to talk again.”

            “Thank you for understanding.” Suitcase in hand, I head back downstairs.

            “I love you,” Clint says as I open the door.

            “I know.” I close the door behind me, waiting until I’ve driven a few blocks away to whisper, “forever and always.”


	2. Chapter 2

            Jenna welcomes me in, all the while looking at me with a creased brow and inquisitive eyes. She leads me up the stairs to their guest bedroom, a quaint space I haven’t been in since the night Selena Kyle stopped by for an unexpected, and unwelcome, visit. I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, my suitcase dropping to the floor.

            “So, are you gonna tell me why you’re here, or am I going to have to figure it out myself?” She sits next to me, her lips pursed, but eyes soft.

            “I know he’s only trying to help, but I can’t take it anymore,” I sigh, looking down at my clasped hands.

            “Don’t tell me you’re calling it quits.”

            “Of course not! I still love him, but I can’t see him without thinking of what could have been.”

            “Have you gone back to work yet?”

            “No. I’m sure Nick’s getting pissed that I keep ignoring his calls, but I don’t know how to go back to life as it was before.”

            “I know I’ve never been in your situation, but I think you need to at least _try_ working again. It might prove to be a better distraction than binge-watching Netflix.”

            “After everything that’s happened, I don’t think I’ll be as… _effective_ anymore.”

            “There’s only one way to find out: call Nick.” Jenna hands me her phone and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly before leaving the room. Still terribly nervous, I dial Nick’s number.

            “Rogers?” Nick asks.

            “Romanoff, actually.”

            “What are you doing calling me from Jenna’s phone?”

            “It’s a long story,” I sigh. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding your calls.”

            “It’s fine. I understand you’re not 100 percent yet, but I would still like to talk to you in person. Are you willing to come to headquarters for a while?”

            “I can be there in 15.”

            “Fantastic. See you then.”

            When I arrive, Nick ushers me into his office, closing the door swiftly behind me.

            “Are you okay?” he asks as he takes a seat behind his desk.

            “Truthfully? No. Not even close. But that’s not why I’m here.” I sit down across from him in the brown leather chair I’ve spent a lot of time in over the last decade. Nick’s always been a good friend, but he’s my boss first, a fact which is made evident by the large oak desk between us.

            “Natasha, if you’re not alright, I don’t know if I can let you jump right back into work,” Nick says softly.

            “Since when have you cared if I’m fine to work?” I scowl. “You were pretty insistent that I take on another mission last week.”

            “I had time to go over everything while I wrote up the report, and I realized you were right; this mission was tough on everyone, but especially you. I understand you need to take time off. I was actually calling to discuss a leave of absence, but you kept refusing to speak to me.”

            “A few days ago, I may have agreed with you. But now…” I look out the window behind Nick, my gaze wandering across the city skyline.

            “Did something happen after you left last week?”

            I nod curtly, my focus coming back to Nick. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been sitting around my house for way too long trying to fill my time with idle distractions. It’s not enough. I want to go back to Russia.”

            “Are you sure?” Nick balks. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

            “I’m sure. I _need_ to finish this.”

            “What did Clint say when you told him?”

            “I… haven’t. We aren’t exactly talking at the moment.”

            “Wait. Is that why you called me from Jenna’s phone?”

            “I’m staying with her and Steve for a while, yes.”

            “What happened?” Nick reaches across his desk for my hand, but I pull away.

            “I don’t want or need your sympathy,” I snap, crossing my arms.

            “Fine. But you two better work this out if you want to go on another mission. Cases like these tend to make you need the support of those you love. Plus, I’ve got money on you kids sticking it out.”

            “You bet on my love life?”

            “We bet on everyone’s love lives. Some of the agents think you’ll dump Clint in a matter of years, but I’ve seen the way you look at each other. That, my dear, is something you can’t fake.”

            “People actually doubt the longevity of my marriage enough to place money on it?”

            “To be fair, you haven’t had the greatest track record with relationships in the past.”

            “Whatever. Yeah, I’m sure we’ll work things out eventually, but until then, you’re seriously not going to let me go to Russia?”

            “That is correct.”

            “Nick, I don’t think you understand how much I _need_ to work.”

            “Oh, I’ll still put you to work, but I’m keeping you grounded. It’s about time we had our best hacker look into this secret society and try to figure out what they’re planning.”

            “When can I start?”

            “Monday morning. Until then, I’d advise going home and actually talking to your husband. I need you for this case, but you’re going to need _him_.”

            “Fine. I’ll see you Monday morning, then.”

            On the drive back to Jenna’s, I struggle to devise a way to fix my marriage. I’ve never been the most expressive person when it comes to my feelings, but Clint has to understand what’s going on. Other than talking it out, which will likely result in a lot of crying and yelling, I’ve got nothing. As much as I don’t want to, I might have to ask a friend for advice.

            Jenna greets me at the door with a steaming mug of tea, curious how my meeting went. I run through the main points before awkwardly segueing into the question of “what do I do to fix things with Clint?”

            “That, my friend, is not something _I_ can answer. You two have to figure it out on your own. I will, however, give you some cheesy, but useful, advice: communication is key. I know your defenses are up and you don’t feel like talking about what happened, but you’re going to have to sooner or later. Be honest with me—are you doing this because you genuinely want to fix things as soon as possible, or so you can go to Russia?”

            “What kind of question is that?” I scoff.

            “Natasha, just answer it truthfully. It’s time to stop lying to yourself,” Jenna scolds me.

            “Fine. This is partially so I can go back to Russia. But only partially! It’s mainly because I love Clint and want to go home… to the way things were before.”

            “Then _go._ Talk to him and figure things out together. You two always were better as a team than individuals.”

            “You’re right. I need to see him.” I stand and glance down at my half-unpacked suitcase.

            “I can drop it off later, just go. And good luck.”

            “Thank you, Jenna. I don’t know what I would do without you.” I race out to my car, anxious for what I’m about to do. Our house is dark when I pull into the driveway, which concerns me even more. Where did Clint go?

            “Clint? Honey? Can we talk?” Silence. I spot a note on the coffee table.

 

                      Nat,

                      Bucky and I went out to get a couple of beers and talk things over. I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted, and I really hope to find you

                      here when I get home. I love you, forever and always.

                      Clint

 

            My fingers trace the words on the paper, the straight block letters he always writes in, as tears fill my eyes. _He knew I’d come back._ I suddenly realize how exhausted I am and curl up on the couch, hoping to take a quick nap before Clint comes home. When I wake up, it’s dark outside and a blanket’s been draped over me. Still tired, I wander upstairs and curl up in bed beside my husband.

            The next morning, I find myself awake before Clint, so I decide to start making breakfast and our traditional “I’m sorry I fucked things up, please forgive me” cheesecake. I open the fridge to discover Clint already made one. Maybe there’ll be less yelling than I thought.

            I’ve just cracked a few eggs into the frying pan when Clint stumbles in. Without even realizing it, a wide smile spreads across my face. Since he just woke up, none of the worry lines are on his forehead, and his eyes lack the haunted, grieving look. For a moment, it’s as if everything is back to normal.

            “Good morning,” Clint smiles back. “I’m so glad you decided to come home last night. What changed your mind?”

            “It was a combination of things, but mainly Jenna. She made me realize I need to stop hiding from my problems and just talk to you.”

            “She’s always been the best of us with people and relationships.”

            “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Can we talk about this?”

            “Of course. Can I help with breakfast first, though? You’re kinda burning the eggs.”

            “Fuck!” I pull the pan off the stove. “Sorry, I forgot I cracked them.”

            “That’s okay,” Clint chuckles. “Here, let me whip up something.”

            I was worried things would be really awkward between us, but we fall back into our easygoing rapport during breakfast. For the first time since I broke the news, we’re both laughing, enjoying each other’s company in a way we haven’t for quite a while. The mood sobers up a bit when we finish eating, both of us knowing how hard this discussion is going to be.

            “Before you say anything, let me tell you how sorry I am for the way I behaved. I was selfish and didn’t consider how my reaction would affect you. This whole ordeal has caused you a lot of pain—all of which I wish I could take away—but I know we’re going to have to learn to live with it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to do that together.” Clint leans forward, his eyes sincere.

            “I would love that, thank you. This is my fault, too. I should have realized how difficult it would be for you to understand how this all is affecting me, and how messed up I’ve become as a result of it. I completely overreacted, and I’m sorry for bottling things up until I exploded.”

            “That’s okay, we’re talking now. Yesterday you said I was only making things worse, so please, tell me what I can do to help you.”

            “I don’t know. This is so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I think I need to go back to work to help take my mind off things.”

            “Are you sure it’s not too soon?”

            “I’ve tried so many things, but nothing has worked. Taking on another mission might be the best thing for me right now. I actually already talked to Nick last night,” I add sheepishly.

            “You did? What did he say?”

            “He told me to talk to you before I made any decisions. He’s hesitant to let me do what I want to without your support.”

            “Natasha, what did you ask him to let you do?” Clint asks suspiciously.

            “Now, don’t get mad, but,” I take a deep breath to calm myself, trying to delay the fight I know is going to happen, “I want to go back—”

            “TO RUSSIA? SERIOUSLY? I thought you were going to stay home and recuperate! After _everything_ , you want to go _back_? Are you insane?”

            “Maybe! I don’t know, I need closure. You heard Dmitri just as well as I did; something big is going to happen.”

            “But you don’t have to be the one to stop it! It’s been almost a week, I’m sure Nick has already sent a few agents to check into it.”

            “He has—Agents Becker and Huffman. But they aren’t as capable as I am! They have no idea what they’re getting themselves into!”

            “Natasha, you’re not convincing me of your plan.”

            “Look, I know how you feel about me leaving again, but what if I didn’t go alone?”

            “…I’m listening.”

            “I realize now that I made a huge mistake last time not asking anyone for help. That’s not a mistake I’m willing to repeat. So, what if you came with me? And maybe Jenna, Steve, Erin, and Bucky, if they’re up for it?”

            “Okay,” Clint sighs. “But before you run with this, I have some conditions. You will have my support if, and _only if_ , all of my terms are met. Okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “First, all six of us have to be willing to go. No exceptions. Second, both Nick and Maria have to be involved. Third, we will team up with the agents already there. I know how much you hate working with people “below you,” so to speak, but they are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Nick obviously trusts them enough to send them alone, so we will share _all of our information with them._ ”

            “Fine. Anything else?” I ask through gritted teeth.

            “Yes. No matter what, we will not be there longer than two weeks.”

            “Two weeks?! You seriously think we can wrap all of this up in _two weeks_?”

            “I don’t care if the mission is finished at that point, we are going home. Do you agree to my terms?”

            “Ugh, fine. I’ll go talk to the others and get them on board as soon as possible!” I pull out my phone and dial Bucky’s number, knowing it’ll be easier to convince Steve if everyone else is already willing to go. “Bucky? It’s Natasha. Can I come over? I have a proposition for you.”

            “Uh, sure, I guess. What’s this about?”

            “You’ll find out when I get there.” I hang up and dash out the door to my car, leaving Clint to stare after me, concerned. I completely disregard the speed limit as I race to see Erin and Bucky, eager to return to Russia as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

            Erin opens the door, slight surprise registering on her face. “Natasha? What are you doing here?”

            “Didn’t Bucky tell you I was coming?”

            “No. Bucky?” she calls over her shoulder, “Natasha’s here!”

            “Already?” He walks up behind his wife. “How many traffic violations did you have getting here?”

            “Only a few, I swear,” I grin.

            “Bucky, what is this about?” Erin whispers.

            “Ask her,” he replies. “She wouldn’t even tell me on the phone.”

            “Can I come in?” I ask impatiently.

            “Oh, yes, of course.” Erin opens the door wider, allowing me to pass by her. I sit down on their couch, motioning for them to join me. They share a concerned glance before closing the door and making their way over to a couple chairs across from the couch.

            “So, as I said, I have a proposition for you two.”

“Are you okay, Tasha? You’re much more… _energetic_ than you were a few days ago when you came over to tell us… um… about the… you know…” Bucky awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, trailing off.

            “I know I’ve been all over the place lately, but I may have a solution. First of all, I need to know how _you’re_ doing, Bucky.”

            “Me? I’m fine, I guess. I feel a bit better after going to see Jemma, so I’m, I don’t know, normal-ish?”

            “Fantastic. So, I don’t know how much you guys were told about what happened when I killed Dmitri, but there’s something going on that we never expected when we left for Russia originally. He was part of a secret society, and with his dying breath he told us we’d never be able to stop them. I know we haven’t been home very long, but I need to go back and get some closure on this.”

            “Okay, first of all, I’m not sure that’s the best idea after everything that’s happened to you lately, but why exactly are you here?”

            I sigh. “Clint and I got into a fight, so Nick told me he wouldn’t let me go without Clint’s support.”

            “You guys are fighting? Is this about the… um…” Now it was Erin’s turn to awkwardly trail off.

            “Yeah, it was. We sort of made up this morning, until I brought up my plan to stop the secret society. He won’t let me go unless I get you guys, Steve, and Jenna on board. We also have to team up with Agents Becker and Huffman, and Clint won’t let me stay longer than two weeks. So, what do you say? Want to take on a secret society before they do something crazy?”

            “Wait. If Nick already sent agents, why are all of us needed?” Erin asks.

            “Technically, it’s probably a bit of overkill, but Clint doesn’t want to take any chances after the whole thing with Dmitri. After all, if he could do that much damage by himself, imagine what a whole group of them can do.”

            “I’m game,” Bucky grins. “I’ll admit, I have been thinking about all those weapons. Where did they come from, and where are they now? What would this secret society need them all for?”

            “Exactly! Erin?”

            “Sounds dangerous, so hell yeah I’m in. You know I rarely get to go on missions, which really sucks, but _someone here_ ,” Erin shoots Bucky a look, “is a little too overprotective.”

            “When you have as many enemies as I do, you tend to do everything you can to protect your loved ones,” he scowls. “How are you going to get Steve on board?”

            “I don’t know. I figured already having you guys coming would help. Maybe Jenna can talk him into it,” I shrug. “That’s my next battle. I think Clint’s counting on him saying no.”

            “Which is a very real possibility,” Bucky nods. “You know what? I’ll come with you. He has a hard time saying no to me.”

            “Really? That’s wonderful! I’ll call him now!” Just as I had with Bucky, I skirt around the issue on the phone, and Steve apprehensively agrees to meet with us. We head over immediately, determined to convince him this is a good idea. When we get there, I explain everything again, careful not to let Steve know Clint’s worried about this.

            “No.” Steve shakes his head, looking at me like I’m crazy.

            “You’re not even going to consider it?”

            “No! I told you this was a bad idea, and now you want me to go with? No! This is insane!”

            “But Steve, there’s strength in numbers. It would be safer if you came with,” I plead.

            “I can’t believe you agreed to this, Buck.”

            “You don’t know what we experienced over there. We need to finish this,” Bucky replies, his eyes hard and cold.

            “True, I don’t know everything, but what I do know is _bad_. _Horrible_. And did I hear you say Erin is going with, too?”

            “Erin’s going?” Jenna sits up straighter, suddenly way more interested in the conversation. “Steve, there is no way in hell I am letting you ruin this. We are going.”

            “You are not going anywhere! This mission is a terrible idea, and I won’t let you risk your life on some wild goose chase!”

            “Oh, you won’t _let_ me? You think I need your _permission_ to go with my friends to a foreign country? Well, guess what, Steve. I’m going no matter what you say, and if you’re so worried about me getting hurt over there, you better be coming, too. Who knows what _crazy_ and _stupid_ things I might do without you,” Jenna snorts sarcastically.

            “I can’t believe this. Jenna, honey, you know—”

            “Oh, please. Don’t you even try. We. Are. Going,” she says through gritted teeth. Steve flinches slightly. It’s always interesting watching these two argue. They’re both such strong personalities and _so fucking stubborn._ I mean, my God, I’ve witnessed arguments last for _days_ over trivial things. Then again, that’s a sign that they’re really in love—I’ve only ever argued like that with Clint.

            “Fine!” Steve throws his hands up in the air. “I guess we’re going to mother fucking Russia!”

            “Language!” Bucky teases.

            “I swear to God I will keep you off the plane if you don’t knock it off,” Steve threatens.

            “Oh, really? You’re going to keep your _best friend_ from going on a mission over a joke?” Bucky stands, now towering over Steve. Soon they’re in each other’s faces, bickering like an old married couple.

            After another few minutes of arguing, I drag Bucky outside and into my car, forcing him to settle down.

            “This is helping no one,” I hiss. “Get yourself together. I’ll be right back.” I walk back into the house to find Jenna doing basically the same thing with Steve. “So, we have a deal? I can let Nick know we’re all on board?”

            “ _Fine_. Send me the details as soon as you have them,” Steve growls. His face is still beet red from yelling, but he’s lowered the volume of his voice, so that’s an improvement. I skip back to the car and drive a brooding Bucky back to his house.

            “I can’t believe that guy,” he grumbles under his breath.

            “Oh, come on, he’s not that bad. You two have been friends since childhood! I’m sure he was just lashing out because he’s worried about Jenna coming with.”

            Bucky mutters something incomprehensible, looking out the window. We remain in relative silence for the rest of the drive. I drop him off at the end of his driveway and head home. Clint’s eating a sandwich when I walk in the front door.

            “So, did you talk to Steve yet?” he asks as he takes another bite.

            “I did! Everyone has agreed, so I guess we’re going to Russia!”

            Clint chokes on his mouthful of food. He grabs a glass of water and manages to swallow. “Steve said yes? He’s fine with Jenna coming with?”

            “Well, he’s not terribly happy about it, but he’s on board. I don’t think Jenna will let him _not_ be on board, so I’ll tell Nick that you’re giving me the green light on this.” I smile, glad to have something to look forward to. The worry lines are back on Clint’s forehead, though I’m sure the reason for them has changed. He was clearly banking on Steve saying no… In all honesty, I feel a little bad about convincing Steve to come with, but I’m pretty sure this will be good for me. I need _something_ , and nothing I’ve tried so far has worked. Clint’s just gonna have to learn to live with it.

            I call Nick, excited to get going as soon as possible. He doesn’t answer, so I decide to drive in to work and see if he’s in his office. There’s an unfamiliar woman sitting at the front desk when I walk in. She smiles up at me and asks for my I.D.

            “Seriously? I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, trying to walk past her. She stands and blocks my path.

            “Ma’am, I need to see your I.D. Only people with high enough clearance can access those elevators,” she insists sternly.

            “You really don’t know who I am?” I stop, staring her down.

            “No, and frankly, if you don’t have the necessary clearance, I don’t particularly care. I.D., please.”

            “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’re obviously new. I don’t care what your name is or what you do as long as you stay out of my way. I am the fucking Black Widow, and I shouldn’t have to present _I.D._ for you to know who I am. I’m an Avenger, goddammit, and I will go where I please. I’m only one clearance level below Nick Fury himself,” I growl.

            “I’d like to believe you, I really would, but if you don’t have an I.D. badge, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she stupidly responds.

            Growing increasingly irritated, I reach for my gun, but a hand on my shoulder stops me.

            “Ah, Tori, I see you’ve met our top agent!” a voice says from behind me. I turn slowly to find Agent Walker beaming, his suit freshly pressed and shoes perfectly shined. I pull away from him, his hand falling back to his side.

            “Jonathan,” I nod curtly.

            “Now, Natasha, you weren’t about to do anything reckless, were you?” he scolds, the smile still plastered on his smug face.

            “Of course not. This bit— _Tori_ wouldn’t let me through to the elevators.”

            “Well, did you show her your I.D.?” he winks at Tori, who shyly smiles back.

            “I, uh, seem to have left it at home. But she should know—”

            “Ah, ah, ah! Are you forgetting that you were new once, too? Give the poor girl a break; she’s only doing her job.”

            “You know what, Jonathan?” I start to raise my voice, drawing the stares of the various low-level agents milling about the first floor.

            “Yes, Natasha?” he smiles, the hint of a sneer in his tone.

            Fuck. He knows I can’t touch him. “Forget it. I have a meeting with Nick.”

            “Oh? Did you not know _Director Fury_ is out of the office today?” The sneer is back, only a little less well concealed this time.

            “Shows what you know,” I scoff. “Have a _wonderful_ day.” I stride toward the elevators, resisting the urge to flip him off. He’s been a dick since day one, and I doubt there’ll ever come a day when I don’t hate his guts. The memory of the day we first met still makes me boil with anger.

            Several years ago, I reported to Nick’s office for a mission debriefing, only to find this goody-two-shoes looking man already there. I was informed that he was fresh out of the academy and would be one of my superiors. _He_ would be one of _my_ superiors? I demanded to know what makes him fit to be a leader of this organization, only to be told the mayor had requested that he receive this position. The smug bastard had the audacity to look me up and down, clicking his tongue and shaking his head all the while. He proceeded to tell Nick that, based on my personality profile (which he had taken the liberty to peruse earlier) and my current physical condition (a few broken bones from my most recent assignment), I was unfit to have such a high clearance, insinuating that I should be demoted. Ignoring my throbbing broken wrist, I launched myself at him, only managing to get a few good hits in before Nick dragged me out into the hallway. I was told to suck it up; if I didn’t behave, there was a chance I actually would be demoted. So since the mayor loves Walker for some ungodly, unknown reason, I have to be courteous. That doesn’t mean he has to extend me the same pleasure.

            The elevator doors slide open, and I angrily march down the hall to Nick’s office. Today was going well up until fucking Jonathan Walker had to go and ruin my good mood. I barge through the door, and Nick looks up from his paperwork, shocked to see me so soon.

            “Natasha? What are you doing here? And why are you scowling?”

            “I—, He—, Ugh!” I pace the floor, seething with rage.

            “Have you spoken with Clint?”

            “Yes! That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

            “I assume, based on your expression, that he said no?”

            “No, he actually agreed. I just, ran into someone on my way here.”

            “You’re not still bitter about the Agent Walker situation, are you?”

            “Of course I’m still fucking bitter!” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down a bit. “But that’s not important right now. What is important is that Clint, Bucky, Steve, Erin, Jenna, and I are going to Russia as soon as you can send us.”

            “All six of you are going? This may be a bit too much for Erin and Jenna to handle…”

            “They’ll be fine. Plus, if they don’t come with, none of us are going.”

            “Clint had conditions…” Nick nods knowingly.

            “Of course he did! That was only one of them.”

            “The others?”

            “Both you and Maria have to be involved in this, I have to team up with Beckett and Huffman, and I only have two weeks to shut it all down.”

            “Sounds reasonable.”

            “Reasonable? Do you think this is something we can accomplish in only two weeks?” I raise my voice again, residual anger pushing its way to the surface.

            “Romanoff, you are the best agent and hacker we have. I have no doubt you will be able to do what you need to with the allotted time.”

            “We’ll see. When can we leave?”

            “Let me check.” Nick pulls up a flight schedule on his computer, a mini map popping up beside it. “It looks like there’s an opening for a flight tomorrow at 0300. You know the drill, arrive 15 minutes early.”

            “Of course. I’ll let the others know.”

            “Wonderful. See you in,” he checks his watch, “14 hours.”

            As I leave, I send texts to everyone else about our flight time. Erin and Jenna are slightly annoyed they have to get up that early, but they’re too excited they get to participate in a high clearance level mission to protest. Clint is already packing when I get home, grumbling under his breath as he folds his clothes. I stand in the doorway, watching him meticulously place things into his suitcase for a few minutes before I speak up.

            “Clint?” I ask softly.

            “Yes, honey?” he responds without looking up. I walk over to him and gently place my hand on his arm, waiting for him to look at me before speaking again.

            “ _Thank you_. I know how hesitant you are to do this, but I have a good feeling about it. Thank you for all you do for me,” I smile.

            “You know, you drive me crazy, but I love you too much to care,” he smiles back. I lean forward and kiss him tenderly, which changes quickly when he puts his hand on the back of my neck. Before I’ve fully realized what’s happening, half our clothes are strewn across the floor. Clint’s suitcase gets shoved aside, his neatly folded shirts scattered in small piles. His lips make their way down my neck and across my collarbone, the light kisses sending chills through me.

            I gasp as the memory of him torturing me surfaces, his lips now feeling like the tip of a knife. “Clint, wait,” I pant, my heartbeat racing.

            “Nat, what’s wrong?” Confusion and concern cloud his face.

            “I’m sorry, but I don’t know if I can do this. Somehow, Dmitri’s still inside my head.”

            “Is this about the baby?”

            “Can we not call it a baby? That just makes it seem more real.”

            “Of course. Is everything alright? We went from 0 to 60 and back down to 0 rather quickly there.”

            “Sorry about that. I guess I’m still learning to keep the nightmares from resurfacing. But I can’t let a dead man keep me from living my life. So kiss me like you did that night we first realized our true feelings for each other. Kiss me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.”

            “That won’t be a problem,” Clint grins crookedly.


	4. Chapter 4

            A shill ringing abruptly wakes me. I groggily look around, taking in the mess of our usually pristine bedroom, and finally locate the source of the noise.

            “What do you want?” I grumble as I answer my cell phone.

            “Were you sleeping?” Nick asks, astonished. “You do remember that you have to leave your house in less than an hour, don’t you?”

            “There’s no way it’s that late already,” I frown.

            “Dear God. Please tell me you’ve _packed_ at least.”

            “Well, my answer depends on whether or not you feel like being lied to.”

            “Get it together, Romanoff. What did you do with the rest of your time after you left my office?”

            “I’ve mainly been sleeping. And… I’ve been trying to make things right with Clint.”

            “I see. Just don’t let your… _reconciliations_ detract from your focus. I need you sharp.”

            “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

            “Just hurry. This plane is leaving at 0300 sharp, regardless of your presence.”

            “Of course, sir.” I hang up before he gets the chance to yell at me. “Clint! Get up! We have to get ready!” I shake my husband’s shoulder as I climb out of bed.

            “But Nat, I’m tired,” he mumbles.

            “We have to pack! We must have fallen asleep…”

            “We’ve got plenty of time. Just let me sleep a little longer.”

            “We have to leave in under an hour! And I don’t know about you, but since we missed dinner, I could use a meal before we get on the plane.”

            “You know me—always willing to eat!” He finally sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “And how is it already so late? Or, early, I guess…”

            “Because we fell asleep, dummy. Come on, we have to be in the car, ready to go, in 45 minutes. I’m _not_ missing this flight.”

            “Right, Russia. Man, it all happened so quickly, it almost feels like a dream.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s not. Let’s go.”

            Clint reluctantly picks up his now-crumpled clothes from where they fell yesterday, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles and refold them. My suitcase is still partially packed from my quick trip to Jenna and Steve’s house, so it doesn’t take me long to finish getting ready. By 2 o’clock, I’ve loaded everything I should need for this trip into the trunk of my car. Since Clint’s still screwing around upstairs, I start throwing together sandwiches for the road.

            At 2:10, I start the car, hoping that Clint is almost ready to go. Five minutes later, I get sick of waiting and go back upstairs. The scene I find in our bedroom would be amusing if we weren’t almost running late. The suitcases are packed and set by the door, but it seems Clint is not alert enough to bring them out to the car; he’s sprawled across the bed, out cold, with his shirt half-buttoned and his belt undone. Sighing loudly, I shake his shoulders. When that doesn’t work, I grab his foot and drag him off the bed, careful to ensure he lands upright. As soon as his butt hits the floor, his eyes fly open. In one swift movement, he grabs his bow from under our bed, the sharp point of the loaded arrow trained right at me.

            “Natasha? Why am I on the floor?” Clint slowly lowers his bow, returning the weapon to its hiding spot.

            “You fell asleep again. Finish getting dressed because we need to leave in the next two minutes if we want to be on time.”

            “Ugh,” he groans. “And by ‘on time’ you actually mean ‘twenty minutes early,’ don’t you?”

            “Nick said to be there fifteen minutes early, and I always allow myself a little extra time in case there’s traffic.”

            “It’s two in the morning, Nat. There’s not going to be any traffic.”

            “You never know,” I shrug.

            Clint fixes his clothes, running his rough hands hastily down his shirt, fruitlessly attempting to hide the fact that it was crumpled in a ball for hours and slept in. As he drives to the hangar, I notice the bags under his eyes have deepened. Neither of us has slept well since I originally left for Russia, but the added stress, grief, and anger have only made us more restless. Despite my excitement, I can’t help but wonder if this is a mistake. What fresh hell am I about to walk into?

            Even though we’re twenty minutes early, we’re still the last to arrive at the hangar. A few workers take our bags to load them into the storage compartment of the jet for us. No longer burdened by our luggage, I take Clint’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. He looks down in surprise, as if he’s checking to make sure the hand holding his is really mine. A slow smile spreads across his face, a new surge of confidence replacing the doubt that lurked in his eyes. We go join the rest of our group, who we find milling about outside the door to the hangar. Steve, who’s in the middle of an enthusiastic discussion on hand-to-hand combat with Bucky, falls silent at the sight of us. Bucky looks us up and down, taking note of Clint’s disheveled appearance and our intertwined fingers.

            “I see you guys kissed and made up, so to speak,” he smirks.

            “Bucky!” Steve scolds him. “Can we place have a normal conversation in this group for once?”

            “Hey, don’t blame me! They’re the ones who are acting differently! I’m just commenting on it!”

            “They’re _holding hands_ , Buck. It’s not like they’re making out or something.” Steve rolls his eyes.

            “They might as well be! You know just as well as I do that this is abnormal behavior for them.”

            “‘ _They’_ are standing right here and would really appreciate everyone shutting up about it. I’m tired and just want to get on this jet so we can go!” I snap.

            “You heard her, everyone on the jet!” Nick ushers us inside. Instead of our usual model, the newest version stands before us. A smaller, sleeker design and more powerful engines mean our travel time will be significantly reduced. This baby can travel at incredible speeds, which will get us to Moscow in about two hours. Unfortunately, it’ll be about noon when we land, meaning Nick will want us to get to work right away.

            We board the jet, quickly relaxing into plush recliners. After we take off, I unbuckle my seatbelt and lift the armrest separating my seat from Clint’s. To everyone’s surprise, I curl up against him and try to fall back asleep. He quickly recovers and wraps his arms around me, settling in for a nap.

            “Get a room!” Bucky calls across the aisle.

            “We’re on a jet, dumbass,” I retort, not even bothering to open my eyes to glare at him. Before long, I’ve slipped into an unexpectedly peaceful sleep. A short while later, Clint’s gently shaking me awake. The glaring sun peeks in beneath the window shade, temporarily blinding me. I quickly sit up and struggle to fasten my seatbelt for the landing. Still quite groggy, I stumble down the stairs onto the tarmac, rather unprepared for the sudden time change.

            “Grab your stuff and let’s get moving! The limo should be here shortly to take us to our hotel,” Nick shouts as he takes his suitcase from the airport staff. Sure enough, a slick, deep gray limo sidles up next to us not even a minute later. We stash our luggage in the spacious trunk and make ourselves comfortable in the back seats. Paranoid after the last disastrous trip to Russia, I glance up at the driver to see if I recognize him as one of our own. The S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol embroidered on the arm of his jacket is reassuring, but I’m still a little wary. It can’t hurt to be cautious. Nick hands out fake passports and credit cards for us to use during this trip.

            “Now, no grumbling about your assigned aliases. They were designed to be somewhat easy for you to remember in a pinch. Under no circumstance should you use your real names or information. Some of you already have solid backstories, but for the rest of you, I would recommend being thorough. If anything goes wrong, knowing as many details as possible about your alias could just save your life. Any questions?” Nick looks around as we all examine our passports. “No? Good. We’re almost there.”

            Our hotel is very similar to the last one: plastic chandeliers line the hallways, a fake oriental rug is spread out across the lobby, and the faint scent of cheap cleaner hangs in the air. As we approach the smiling young woman at the front desk, I glance down at my credit card one last time to remember what name Nick conjured up for me.

            “Welcome to Moscow’s largest hotel, The Entin. My name is Klara, how may I be of service to you today?” The girl speaks slowly, clearly unsure if any of us speak Russian.

            “Good afternoon!” I step forward, smiling broadly. “My name is Nadine Roman, and I believe you should have a room reserved for my husband Chester and me?”

            “Of course, Mrs. Roman! If you’ll hand me your credit card, I can get your room keys ready for you.”

            As she finishes putting together all of my paperwork, I lean forward and say in a hushed tone:

            “Now, you’ll have to forgive my friends, but they don’t speak Russian as well as I do. Is it okay if they only tell you their names?”

            “Oh, yes. We try to be as accommodating as possible to our many foreign visitors,” Klara beams. She hands over my keycards and gestures for the next person to step forward.

            “Umm… Scott and Jessica Reid?” Steve mumbles holding out his card. Klara seems to doubt him until she confirms the name on the card matches.

            “Ben and Elizabeth Bradley,” Bucky announces much more confidently, passing the young lady his credit card with his non-metal hand; no need to make her more suspicious of us than she already is. Nick and Maria proceed to check in as Nathan Foster and Megan Harper, respectively. I’m about to head off to my room when Nick slips a piece of paper into my hand.

            “Right. That,” I mutter, quickly reading the note and slipping it into my pocket. “Klara? We have some friends staying here who arrived a number of days ago. Would you, perhaps, be able to tell me what rooms Cassandra Burnes and Ian Harris are staying in?”

            “Ah, yes, the other Americans. They are staying just down the hall from you, in rooms 405 and 407.”

            “Thank you so much! Have a wonderful day!” I wave politely as we turn towards the elevators.

            “Who are you, and what did you do with my wife?” Clint asks, playfully elbowing me.

            “What? My undercover personality can’t be pleasant?” I roll my eyes.

            “Hey, I’m just worried about you being able to keep up the act.”

            “I can be nice to people if I want to!” I pick up my suitcases and step into the elevator.

            “I know, I know. Ready to meet Becker and Huffman?” Clint and the rest of our group attempt to cram all of us into a single elevator car. By some miracle, the doors slide shut.

            “Ugh, right. You know what? I’m gonna prove you wrong. They’re gonna _love_ me.”

            The doors part on the fourth floor, revealing a surprisingly ornately decorated hallway. Plush red carpet lines the floors, the edges meeting cream, gold-trimmed walls. The same tacky chandeliers that were in the lobby are dispersed across the ceiling tiles. We shuffle out of the cramped elevator and find our respective rooms. After last time, I’m wary of setting in, so I only hang up my clothes that absolutely have to be on hangers; everything else remains in my suitcase. Once I’m done, I wander across the hall to Nick’s room, knowing he’ll have something he wants me to do already.

            “Agent Romanoff! I was just about to come find you!” Nick exclaims when he answers his door.

            “What’s up, boss?”

            “I’ve set up a meeting with Becker and Huffman so we can go over details. Let the others know to meet in conference room 412 in 15 minutes.”

            “Yes, sir. See you soon.” As instructed, I alert the others of our impromptu meeting. Then, I take a quick trip around our floor, surveying potential escape routes. On my way back to my room, I bump into a petite woman in the hallway, causing her to drop her bag in surprise.

            “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she quickly apologizes, looking quite flustered.

            “No, it was my fault. Are you alright?” I stoop down to help her pick up her scattered belongings.

            “I’m more embarrassed than anything. I tend to get a bit caught up in my own thoughts and forget to pay attention to where I’m going,” she smiles sheepishly. “Hey, you speak English really well. Where are you visiting from?”

            “New York. And you?”

            “No way! I’m from New York, too! I was actually sent out here for work,” she glances down at her watch, “and would you look at that. I’m almost late for my meeting.”

            “I apologize if this seems rather forward, but are you, by chance, on your way to meet your team members for this job?” I ask cautiously.

            “I am! I wasn’t expecting anyone other than my partner to be working with me, but a whole group of people just flew in. How’d you know?” She eyes me suspiciously, the bright smile gradually fading from her lips.

            “Cassandra Burnes, I presume?”

            “Yes!” A broad grin spreads across her face. She leans a bit closer to me. “Actually, it’s Charlotte Becker. Please, call me Charlie.” She extends her hand earnestly.

            “Natasha Romanoff.” Her eyes widen as I shake her hand.

            “Oh my God. You’re the Black Widow,” she says breathily. “Agent Romanoff, it is _such_ a pleasure to meet you! I knew we were going to be joined by some higher ranking agents, but I had no idea I would get to work with you!”

            “You’re too sweet. And feel free to call me Natasha,” I smile genuinely. I didn’t think it would be possible, but I really like this girl.

            “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not as intimidating as I expected,” Charlie admits.

            “Really?” I chuckle. “Quick word of advice: don’t be fooled by appearances. As a secret agent who routinely infiltrates dangerous organizations, I’ve learned a thing or two about playing a part. Just wait until you see me out in the field; I _will not hesitate_ to kill.”

            “We all act differently when we’re under pressure,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just excited to see how the group dynamic is.”

            “Ah, fuck. We’re late!” We sprint down the hall to conference room 412, where we find everyone expectantly waiting for us.

            “Scaring the new kids already, Tasha?” Bucky snickers.

            “If you must know, we were getting to know one another in a nonviolent, nonthreatening manner,” I smirk back.

            “Really, Natasha here is a sweetheart!” Charlie beams, much to everyone’s amusement.

            Nick clears his throat loudly, silencing the laughter. “Enough! Let’s get introductions over with so we can discuss the reason we’re all here! Becker, since you were late, would you care to start?”

            “Oh. Sure.” She runs her fingers through her curly brown hair, pulling it back behind her ear. Her gentle blue eyes sweep the room, a flash of fear darkening them as she realizes who she is addressing. “Hi, my name is Charlotte Becker, but you can call me Charlie. This is my first international mission, and I’m delighted to have the opportunity to work with all of you.” Charlie sort of curtsies awkwardly before taking a seat at the table. She pulls paper work out of her bag and fiddles with it anxiously.

            “I guess I’ll go next,” the man seated next to Nick says as he stands. His dark hair is slicked back, gelled to a point where it’s almost as shiny as his shoes. I size him up to be just over six feet, with a slight build and not enough muscle mass. “My name is Isaac Huffman. Honestly, feel free to call me whatever the hell you want—I don’t really care. This is my fourth international mission; I spent some time in Germany, Austria, and England.” He sits back down, a smug smile playing across his lips.

            “Wonderful.” Nick sighs, “Natasha? Briefly, if you can manage.”

            “I’m Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow. I actually grew up here, and this is my second time in Moscow in the past month or so. An explanation of my resume doesn’t really seem necessary, so I’m just gonna sit down now.” I move around the table to snag the chair next to my husband.

            “I’m Clint Barton, or Hawkeye. I’m not nearly as impressive as my wife, but I did end up saving her life last time we were here, so I’ve got that going for me.” He grins at me, clearly quite proud of himself.

            “Is this really necessary?” Bucky leans back in his chair, fingers interlocked behind his head.

            “Humor me,” Nick replies tersely.

            “Ugh, fine. My name is James Buchanan Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky. Neither of you has earned that privilege, so you will address me as Agent Barnes. Don’t test my patience because I don’t have much. Being the Winter Soldier for a few decades will do that to you.”

            Charlie crosses her legs, shuffling the paperwork in her hands. She keeps her head low and eyes averted from Bucky. Isaac, on the other hand, makes the poor decision of maintaining eye contact with Bucky, who glares back until Erin smacks his arm hard enough to draw his attention.

            “And you accused _Tasha_ of scaring the new kids…” she mutters before straightening up, taking a sip of her coffee, and forcing a smile. “Don’t mind him. I’m Erin, and this is actually my first international mission as well. Bucky here can get a bit too overprotective, but I know that just means he cares. Unlike my grumpy husband, I’m fine with you calling me by my first name. Or, if you prefer, you can call me by my badass hero name, Winter Warrior. Your choice.”

            Jenna takes a long drink from her coffee cup before speaking. “Hi, I’m Jenna, and I’m an addict.”

            “Jenna, honey, now is not the time for jokes!” Steve admonishes her quietly.

            “Oh, come on, I was trying to lighten things up a little! You’ve gotta admit, this feels like an AA meeting or something.”

            “Mrs. Rogers, please _try_ to take this seriously,” Nick grumbles. “We don’t exactly have much time.”

            “Right, sorry Fury. Okay, I’m Jenna Rogers, and I’m in the same boat as Erin. Forewarning: I don’t do physical contact, so for the love of God, please don’t try to hug me or anything. I also go by Lieutenant America, though most people tend to forget that. Your turn, party pooper,” she nudges Steve.

            “Thank you for that _wonderful_ introduction, Jenna,” Steve snorts sarcastically. “I’m Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America, and I will not tolerate immature behavior. Since Nick was the one to send you here, I expect you both to be professional.”

            “Wow, old man. That was quite the speech,” Jenna giggles.

            “I’m just making sure they know what they’re in for,” he shrugs.

            “Charlie, Isaac, I promise he’s not always like this. He’s just not terribly happy I’m ‘putting myself in danger’ by being here.”

            “Okay, that’s enough.” Nick stands, his palms flat on the glass table. “As you already know Maria and myself, we can skip that portion of this tedious exercise. It’s time for you both to tell us what you’ve uncovered in your time here.” He looks back and forth between Isaac and Charlie, who awkwardly stare at each other in silence. “I’m waiting,” Nick growls.

            “Well, sir, it’s only been a few days, and—” Charlie starts.

            “It’s been a week, Becker,” Nick snaps. “Are you telling me you’ve made no progress?”

            “I wouldn’t say _no_ progress… Isaac?” Charlie looks hopefully at her partner, eyes pleading for him to step up and share the blame.

            “Uh, yeah, we’ve compiled a list of potential secret society members, but have been unable to look into more than a few so far.” Isaac straightens his tie and shirt cuffs, small beads of sweat forming on his brow.

            “How long is your list?” Nick asks.

            “Um… 300 or so names?” Charlie looks down at her hands.

            “You’ve been unable to narrow it down further?”

            “As of right now, yes.”

            “And how many of these leads seem promising?”

            “None so far, sir.” Charlie’s whispering now, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

            Nick sighs loudly and turns away from us. “Well, Natasha, I guess you were right about them not being able to handle this responsibility. Look over their list immediately and do what you can, even if that requires you to scrap everything and start over.”

            “Yes, sir.” I look away from our young team members, slightly ashamed for having doubted them before we even met. Sometimes, it really sucks to be right.

            “Becker and Huffman, after you turn over your data, you are free to do what you please. I would recommend enjoying what little time you have left in this city.”

            “Sir, does that mean you’re sending us home?” Isaac asks, his face flushed.

            “What use are you here?” Nick stares him down. “I’ve assembled a team that I know will get me results. It was a waste of resources to send you two out here to do nothing.”

            Isaac recoils, shrinking down into his seat. Silent tears slip down Charlie’s face, which she tries to hide in her hands.

            “Nick, give them another chance!” I demand somewhat reluctantly; Fury’s already in a bad mood, but I can’t listen to him tear them down anymore. I remember what it was like to be in their shoes, struggling to meet Nick’s high expectations.

            “Why are you sticking up for them?” Nick takes a few steps towards me. “You didn’t even want to work with them in the first place!”

            “I changed my mind! I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?”

            “We can discuss their fate later. I believe I already gave you your orders.”

            “Fine.” I stand and cross the room to where Charlie’s sitting. I gently place a hand on her back and help her stand, as her face is still buried in her palms. Before we reach the door, Nick’s phone rings.

            “Director Fury,” he answers gruffly. “About damn time you called. Send the results to me by email as soon as humanly possible.” He hangs up, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Natasha, wait.”

            “What now?” I ask, annoyed.

            “New orders—the coroner has finished his assessment of Dmitri’s body, and—”

            “I still can’t believe you ran an autopsy. I’m the one who killed him!”

            “Romanoff! We clearly knew cause of death, but I didn’t want to risk missing something. And now, because someone took the time to analyze Dmitri’s corpse, we may have new evidence.”


	5. Chapter 5

            Intrigued, but still furious, I walk Charlie down the hall and back to her room. I do what I can to calm her down, and gradually, she stops sobbing.

            “I know we haven’t accomplished much yet, but how can he expect us to make as much progress as you could?” she sniffles.

            “He sets his expectations way too high all the time, don’t worry about it. He’ll eventually learn to tailor them to your abilities.” I sit next to her on her bed, one arm around her shoulders.

            “Is he really going to send me home?” Charlie looks up at me with tear-filled eyes, worry and self-doubt evident on her face.

            “Not if I have anything to say about it. Here, let me find you some tissues.” I wander into the bathroom, hoping there’s a box of Kleenex somewhere. While I’m looking, I hear the door to the hallway open and someone come in.

            “Charlie, are you okay?” Isaac as anxiously asks.

            “Yeah, I’m fine. But what was that attitude back there? That wasn’t you,” she replies tersely.

            “Don’t you get it, Char? Those people are _professionals_. I had to try to talk myself up. Director Fury said it himself—they don’t even _want_ to work with us. We’re nobodies; they’re the goddamn Avengers!”

            “You’re wrong. They may have had their doubts before, but you might have sealed our fate with that false ego. Please, just dress in your normal clothes and stop slicking your hair back. It’s obvious you’re not impressing them. You just look like a jackass.”

            “I… I do? Oh God, Charlie, why didn’t you say something sooner? They probably think I’m an imbecile!” Isaac’s voice is rough, panicked, and missing all of the self-importance that had inflated it earlier.

            “Relax, we’re used to it,” I shrug as I walk back into the main bedroom, a box of tissues in hand.

            “How long have you been here?” Isaac takes an involuntary step back, his voice rising in pitch. “I mean, uh, you are?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

            “I assume you’ve seen the entry-level agents milling about the main floor at headquarters?” I hand the tissues to Charlie, who graciously accepts them. “I have to interact with them way more often than I’d like to. They always try to make themselves seem as important as possible because they know who I am. Honestly? I couldn’t care less how important they are. Genuine people are much more pleasant to work with than the stuck-up assholes with inflated egos. The suck-ups are also the only agents I know that take the time to make their hair as shiny as their freshly polished shoes. It’s disgusting.”

            Isaac nervously runs his hand through his hair, the copious amounts of styling gel causing it to stick out in several different directions. He loosens his tie and the top button on his pressed dress shirt. “Can we start over?” he asks, extending his hand. “My name is Isaac Huffman, and it is an absolute pleasure to have the opportunity to work with you.”

            “Likewise,” I smile as I shake his hand firmly. His posture quickly relaxes and a smile lights up his eyes. “Now, if you two are going to be alright, I should probably go talk to Nick.”

            “Right. If you’re unable to convince him to let us stay, I completely understand; we haven’t really been that useful here.”

            “Don’t worry, I won’t let him send you home. Besides, he knows just as well as I do how important it is to have backup.” And with a curt wave, I leave Charlie and Isaac to go find our boss. After having no luck at his room, I head back to the conference room. Hushed whispers slip through the gap in the door, barely even audible. I knock once, and the noise from within ceases. Soft footsteps indicate someone is coming over to check the door, which opens ever so gradually. As soon as Maria recognizes me through the crack in the door, she swings it open and quickly ushers me in.

            “Are the others alright?” Nick asks as he shuffles a stack of papers.

            “What do you care?” I scoff, taking a seat across the table from him.

            “They’re my agents. Regardless of how I feel about them at the present time, I am still responsible for them, and I want to make sure they’re okay.” He crosses his arms, looking up from the table to glare at me.

            “They’re going to be a lot better when you tell them they can stay and help us with this investigation,” I answer coldly.

            “Now why would I do that?”

            “Because they deserve to be here! You chose those two for a reason, let them finish what they started!”

            “They barely started anything!” Nick massages his temples. “With your level of intelligence, I thought you would have figured this out by now…”

            “Figure what out, Nick? I’m sick of all your mind games.”

            “They have little to no experience, and I knew if you found that out, you’d want to come here yourself. You’re too dedicated to this case to pass it on to anyone else, but I knew I’d get the fastest response by sending Becker and Huffman.”

            “I’d love to say that this surprises me, but unfortunately, this is exactly the type of thing you’d pull. Well congratulations, I’m here. Anything else you’d like to get off your chest while we’re at it?”

            “Maria, please leave us.” His voice is guttural and strong.

            “As you wish.” Looking rather flustered, she closes the door behind her on her way out.

            “There’s something that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Nick lifts his gaze to meet mine, his voice losing its strength.

            “What the hell have I done now?” I roll my eyes, already done with his bullshit.

            “Agent Walker stopped by my office soon after you left. He seemed concerned about your wellbeing.”

            “Yeah, sure. Fucking Jonathan Walker cares _so much_ about how I’m doing. He just wants me fired,” I snort.

            “Natasha, this is serious. To be honest, the things he brought to my attention were things that I had also noticed, but I was hoping weren’t going to be an issue.”

            “Spit it out already.”

            “The issue he stressed the most has been the change in your physique. Never in all our years working together have you been so unmotivated to stay in shape.”

            “Oh, so Jonathan thinks I’m _fat_ now, is that it? That asshole can go fuck himself with a rusty shank for all I care.”

            “I understand the amount of physical, psychological, and emotional torture you went through was astronomical, but your reactions have been very different from what we expected. You don’t seem as healthy as usual, and your moods swings are honestly terrifying. Is there something that I should know about?” Nick asks softly.

            Involuntary tears spring up in my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. “The things I’ve been through… no one should ever have to experience them. There are so many things I wish I could change about the past few weeks, but, like an idiot, I ignored my gut instincts, and now I have to live with the consequences.”

            “You are not responsible for the deaths that occurred.”

            “If it weren’t for one, I’d agree with you.”

            “Who? Georgy? For the last time, Natasha, that was out of your control.”

            “No, I’m talking about someone who I will never get the chance to even meet. Nick, I—” A sob catches in my throat, forcing me to pause for a minute. You’d think this would get easier with time, but the words don’t want to come out. I can’t seem to bring myself to admit the error in my judgment, the horrible deed I’ve done, the joy I’ve robbed from both Clint and myself.

            “Natasha, what is it? What am I missing here?” Nick reaches across the table for my hand, which I actually let him take for once.

            “I wasn’t sure when we left originally, but I _know_ I should have checked. I had an appointment scheduled for a few days later, and I don’t know why I didn’t push it up to before our flight. The harsh chemicals Dmitri forced into us made the situation a million times worse. The pain, anger, frustration, sorrow on Clint’s face when he found out was almost too much for me to handle. I didn’t want to say anything because I knew you’d rethink your decision to let me come with this time, but I am not in peak condition; I think I’m the farthest thing from it. Before we left, by some miracle, I was pregnant. During our time here, the fetus died, and I later miscarried.”

            “Dear God…” Nick whispers, gently squeezing my hand. “Natasha, I’m so s—”

            “Don’t. I need to move on, and I can’t do that if I keep dwelling on the past. Now, you said there was new evidence?”

            “I… uh, yeah. The coroner sent over his report, and there’s something I want you to take a look at. They may mean nothing, but I want to know for sure.” Nick slides a small stack of pictures across the table. To my surprise, they’re photos of a series of tattoos.

            “Really? You just want me to translate these?” I scowl, annoyed that he got my hopes up.

            “The first two, if you would.” Nick nods curtly.

            I look back down at the top image, a phrase scrawled across Dmitri’s ribcage. Skimming over it quickly, I can’t help but chuckle.

            “What? What does it mean?” Nick leans forward, his usual grimace deepening.

            “‘You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else’ – Albert Einstein. Ooh, so menacing. I’m sure this is the best possible use of my limited time here.” I roll my eyes and set the pictures back down on the table.

            “Okay, so the first one is clearly a dead end, but there are four more images there, Romanoff. I advise you to continue.” Nick narrows his eye at me, indicating he’s deadly serious; unless I want to be sent home now, I’d better keep going.

            “Fine,” I scowl, picking up the stack and setting aside the first photo. The second seems to be of Dmitri’s bicep, and the quote’s much shorter than the previous one. “‘Never let your fear decide your fate.’”

            “A motto of some sort?”

            “Must be.” _A super cliché motto._  I set it down and analyze the third photo. “Nick, these are just a bunch of zig zagging lines wrapped around his arm. It’s tribal and likely meaningless.”

            “Fine. Keep going.”

            The fourth one looks like a coat of arms or family crest, stamped just below the left side of his collarbone. The tattoo is small, but there seems to be an animal of some sort in it. “Is that a fox?” I ask, passing Nick the picture.

            “Maybe? What kind of foxes live in Russia?”

            “Do you seriously expect me to know that?”

            “…No?”

            “Let me Google it quickly,” I sigh, pulling out my phone. “Looks like there’s red, arctic, and corsac.”

            “Do those mean anything to you?”

            “Not really. I suppose corsac, or κорсáκ, sounds a little like Krushnic,” I shrug, not seeing any connections.

            “It’s probably just another dead end. The last one, if you would.”

            The fifth and final image is very different from the others. Instantly intrigued, I bring it closer to my face; the bizarre collection of straight and curved lines look like they’re hiding something important, almost as if it’s a puzzle that I feel compelled to solve.

            “This is more zoomed in than the others. Where is it located?” I look up without really seeing Nick. Theories swirl through my head, clouding my vision.

            “Uh…” Nick loudly flips through the coroner’s report. “Right wrist. The coroner said it’s quite small and easily hidden. In fact, he didn’t even notice it until after he cleaned off the body, so it’s likely that Dmitri covered it with makeup.”

            “Nick, this has to be important. There’s no way something this complex and precise is meaningless.” I force myself back to reality, my eyes slowly focusing again on the picture in my hands. _This is it, the clue we’ve been waiting for. I don’t know what it is yet, but I have a feeling it’ll blow this case wide open._

            “See what you can find. I should go see Becker and Huffman and… um…,” Nick uncomfortably looks away, “ _apologize_.” The word barely makes it out of his clenched jaw—Nick hates admitting he’s wrong.

            “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know what I discover.” I leave all but the final picture on the table, still scrutinizing the confusing image on the way back to my room. In my haste to get to my computer, I fail to notice the man walking down the hall towards me until we pass each other. Something about him makes me pause and stare after him. His tall, bulky frame disappears around the corner, but not before I notice a familiar logo on his arm.

            My task momentarily forgotten, I stealthily pace down the hallway and peer around the corner. The man has stopped outside a room whose door is cautiously opened by our driver. They hastily look both ways down the hall before our driver ushers the strange man through the doorway. Since this matter seems more pressing than my research, I race back to the conference room.

Nick hears the door click behind me as I tightly shut it, causing him to look up from his laptop.

            “Natasha? Did you find something already?”

            “I haven’t been back to my room yet.” I slide into a chair next to him. “Nick,” I lower my voice, “how many non-agents did you fly out here?”

            “Just our driver. Why?”

            “That’s what I was afraid of,” I sigh. “What do you know about him?”

            “His name is Jordan Wilkinson, but other than that, I don’t know much. The agency handles the hiring and selection of drivers.”

            “Does he have any connections here?”

            “Not that I know of. What’s this all about?”

            “On my way to my room, I passed a man I didn’t recognize wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. jacket. Naturally, I tailed him. He went straight to Wilkinson’s room, and both of them were acting really sketchy.”

            “God-fucking-dammit!” Nick bellows, his brow furrowing. “That’s it! I’m revamping our security protocols and hand-selecting all future workers that come along on missions. I’m so fucking sick of S.H.I.E.L.D. being compromised!” At this point, Nick’s pacing, rage flushing his face.

            “Nick! Keep your voice down!” I shush him. “We need to think rationally about how we’re going to deal with this.”

            “You’re right,” he sighs as he sits back down. “Okay, I brought some discreet cameras with, so I’ll place one in the hallway. It’s too late to try and bug his room, but hopefully the camera will catch something.”

            “Do you want me to keep an eye on him?”

            “No, I’ve got this. Go do your own work.” Nick waves his hand, dismissing me. As soon as I reach the door, he stops me again. “Actually, bring me Becker and Huffman first. I might as well get that unpleasantness out of the way.”

            I find the door to Charlie’s room propped open, so I head there first. I raise my hand to knock, but pause to take in the scene before me. Isaac sits slumped over in the corner by the window and gazes out at the city below him, his coffee growing cold on the table. Charlie sniffles as she folds her clothes, her suitcase laying open on the tightly made bed, already half filled. She glances over to her partner and bites her bottom lip, seeming to toy with exactly what to say to him.

            “Isaac? Shouldn’t you start packing?” She places the shirt in her hands neatly in line with the rest of them.

            “I never unpacked,” he answers gruffly, not even bothering to turn and look at her. Charlie starts to move toward him, but changes her mind and returns to emptying the dresser drawers of her belongings.

            “A wise choice, if you ask me.” I step into the room, startling them once again. “In this line of work, you never know when you’ll have to pick everything up and head to another city. That being said, I would advise you both to remain at least mostly packed at all times, though you don’t have to worry about going elsewhere today.”

            The outfit Charlie’s holding slips through her fingers as she looks at me, what I’ve said fully registering. Isaac glances back and forth between the two of us, clearly not putting the pieces together.

            “Do you mean it?” Charlie asks quietly, tears threating to still down her cheeks.

            “Mean what?” Isaac strides across the room, curious as to what he missed. “What’s going on?”

            “Nick wants to talk to you about staying a bit longer,” I smile, glad to be giving someone good news for once.

            The light returns to Isaac’s eyes, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Seriously? Agent Romanoff, you’re the best!”

            “I’m always happy to help. And please, call me Natasha,” I laugh. Charlie rushes forward, throwing her arms around me in a warm embrace. I can feel her trembling slightly as I hug her back, and something clicks in my brain; I care so much about these two because they feel like children. It looks like I have a maternal instinct after all.


	6. Chapter 6

            After sending Charlie and Isaac to talk to Nick, I finally get back to my room and start working on my original task. I snap a picture of the strange tattoo with my phone and send it to myself in an email so I can do research on my laptop. As usual, I probe the deep web for answers. A reverse image search provides an abundance of geometric symbols, though none of them match exactly.

            An hour later, I stumble upon a blog post that contains a small picture of an identical tattoo in red ink. The blogger appears to be anonymous, but nothing’s ever truly hidden on the internet. After hacking the account, I discover the blogger is a young man named Timur Gorokhin. From there, I look into his social media pages and discover several encrypted messages. It’s been a while since I’ve had to crack Russian codes, but I manage to decipher it in under an hour; the messages mainly talk of odd jobs, but a few words stick out: cult and grand master. _Could this be a member of the secret society we’re looking for?_

            I stare down at the picture again and try to recreate it. While sketching a few of the lines, I recognize Russian letters in them. Pulling it all apart, I form as many possible combinations of letters I can that would make up the entire image. Most of them are gibberish, but one forms a familiar word. КИНЖАЛ. Dagger.

 

[AN: sorry guys, I actually designed the tattoo and made it on a word document, but AO3 won't let me paste it here]

 

            Returning to the deep web, I search for anything containing the words Russia, secret society, cult, and dagger. It takes a while, but I finally find something concrete; a single message, sent from one phony account to another, welcoming a new member into the Cult of the Dagger. I attempt to trace the IP addresses, but end up with a whole lot of nothing. Whoever sent this message know what they were doing and sufficiently covered their tracks.

            Clint comes wandering in, a towel slung over his shoulder and a small duffle bag in his hand.

            “How’s the research going?” He plops down next to me on the bed, disrupting my scattered notes.

            “I’m not 100% sure yet, but I think I’ve at least uncovered the name of the secret society,” I sigh as I clean up the mess of papers around me. “What have you been up to?”

            “We went to check out the, uh, facilities.”

            “You went swimming, didn’t you?” I narrow my eyes slightly as I take in his damp hair, prune-y fingers, and the unmistakable scent of chlorine.

            “Are you mad?” he asks sheepishly.

            “No,” I sigh, “just disappointed I missed out on the fun.”

            “But hey! You’ve made great progress!” His smile is wide and genuine, a bright spark lights up his eyes.

            “I suppose. Do you think I should try to find more on my own before going to Nick?”

            “How long have you been working on this?”

            “A few hours,” I shrug.

            “You’ve done enough for today. Say, how about we head down to the hot tub when you get back?”

            “Sounds amazing. Find my suit for me while I’m gone?”

            “Sure thing!”

            As quickly as possible, I go through everything with Nick, saving the deciphered image for last. Nick seems impressed by how clever the tattoo design is, and even more impressed that I was able to find letters in that mess of lines. He immediately tries to give me another task, but I stop him midsentence.

            “Everyone else has been able to relax a bit while I’ve been working my ass off for the last several hours. I’m taking a dip in the hot tub with my husband before I do any more investigating today.”

            “I suppose it’s only fair. Alright, you have until after dinner to relax. Spend your time wisely.” Nick looks at me sternly, annoyed at how quickly I disobey him.

            For the next hour and a half, I do my best to pretend that I’m on vacation rather than on a potentially dangerous mission in a country that holds countless scarring memories for me. Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve uncovered. _This is just the tip of the iceberg—who knows how many people are part of it?_

            Group dinner is awkward. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t have new agents and so many introverts gathered around the same table, but seeing as that describes nearly everyone present, it’s impossible to avoid. It also doesn’t help that Nick’s currently annoyed with Charlie, Isaac, and me. But hey, what’s new?

            Erin and Jenna, hands-down two of the sassiest people I know, are surprisingly quiet; normally, they’d be cracking inappropriate jokes and making faces at each other, but they’ve just been keeping their heads down, whispering back and forth quietly.

            Clint, ever the diplomat, is the first to break the silence. “So, what have you all been up to today?” We turn to look at him, slightly dumbfounded, but no one says anything. “Wow, that sounds like a blast,” he chuckles nervously. “I scoped out exits and the overall layout of the hotel while Nat here did some awesome hacking! Right, babe?”

            “Uh, y-yeah,” I stammer. “I think I’ve identified a member of the secret society we’re after.”

            “That’s great!” Charlie smiles at me, though there’s a flicker of pain in her eyes. It must be hard for her to act like she’s not hurt I so quickly upstaged her. When she notices me analyzing her, she looks down at her sandwich to avoid my gaze.

            “Yeah, way to go, Red Velvet!” Jenna snickers and high-fives Erin. The old nickname came out of nowhere, catching me by surprise. I try to hide my embarrassment, but my expression betrays me—my eyes grow wide, my jaw drops slightly, and a blush creeps up my face.

            “Red Velvet?” Nick arches an eyebrow. “That one’s new.”

            “It’s, uh, a name I haven’t heard in years. I could’ve sworn they’d forgotten about it!” I shoot Jenna a look.

            “Sure, like we’d ever forget your stripper name!” At this point, Erin’s laughing so hard that tears are starting to form in her eyes.

            “I’m sorry, _stripper_ name?” Steve pipes up. “Natasha, it seems you’ve failed to inform us all of certain aspects of your life.”

            “If you really want to know, why don’t you ask Snowflake and Boo Bear?” I scowl, effectively silencing the laughter coming from the end of the table.

            “Jenna? What’s she talking about?” Steve turns to his wife, whose face has turned a brilliant crimson.

            “Um, well… Erin?” Jenna looks across the table to her usual partner in crime.

            “They’re stupid nicknames we came up with years ago,” Erin rolls her eyes. “We had this running joke that we were going to give up on our dreams and become strippers, so we decided we’d need names for our new line of work.”

            “So which were you? Snowflake or Boo Bear?” Bucky looks up.

            “Boo Bear, obviously. It’s actually short for Winter Boo Bear, but everyone seems to forget that.”

            “Why Snowflake?” Isaac leans forward, his eyes sweeping the table.

            “Ugh, Malibu Barbie had this weird idea that I ate exclusively white foods, so he started calling me Snowflake,” Jenna sighs.

            “Wait. Malibu Barbie is a _he_?” Steve snorts.

            “Colin was stick thin and blond,” Erin shrugs. “And, if I remember correctly, Natasha came up with that one.”

            “I only accept partial responsibility for that,” I laugh. “Yes, I called him Barbie, but Jenna was the one who added ‘Malibu.’”

            “This is true,” Jenna chuckles. “Man, I wonder where he is now…”

            “Probably still trying to save the whales.”

            “Hold up. How did I never meet him? You three met through Bucky and me!” Steve stares us down, though he mainly focuses his attention on Jenna.

            “We met him at a music festival,” Jenna shrugs. “Besides, I’m not required to introduce you to all of my friends.”

            “You seem to have known each other well enough to exchange nicknames, though,” Steve retorts. “Still no need to introduce him to your husband?”

            “Chill, we weren’t even married back then! Besides, you have nothing to worry about—Colin’s not even close to my type.”

            “I’m amazed he’s anyone’s type,” Clint laughs.

            “You met him?” Steve looks at Clint incredulously.

            “A few times,” he shrugs. “But to be fair, Nat and I had been together longer, and we were already engaged when the girls met him.”

            “What have I done?” Jenna sighs loudly. “Man, I try to bring back my favorite nickname for Tasha, and I start an argument over Malibu fucking Barbie. Who, for the record, I haven’t actually seen in a few years.”

            “You’ve gotta admit, this is better than the awkward silence, though,” Bucky says, doing his best to alleviate the tension.

            “Is it? Is it _really_?” Jenna counters, exasperated.

            “Alright, kids,” Nick clears his throat, “if you’re done bickering, I believe there’s work to be done.”

            “There is?” Bucky sneers. “I was under the impression we were on vacation!”

            “Can it, Barnes,” Nick barks. “Natasha made a lot of progress on her own today, but now it’s time to divvy up responsibilities. You will each be assigned a section of the master list of this kid’s contacts, friends, acquaintances, etc. to look into. The minute you find something, I want to know.”

            “What if we come up empty-handed?” Charlie asks nervously.

            “Pray that doesn’t happen,” Nick scowls. “Now, as soon as you’re done eating, report to the conference room we were in earlier, as that will serve as command central for the duration of the time we spend in this hotel. Am I making myself clear?”

            “Crystal,” came the mumbled replies, none of us all that eager to spend our time Facebook-stalking random people, just hoping to find something useful. I know for a fact that most of us became agents to be part of the action, yet here we are, stuck in a hotel for who knows how long. Since I’m a trained hacker, I’m used to doing a lot of the technical work, but this seems below even my pay-grade.

            After cleaning up our mess from dinner, we trudge to the conference room to receive our assignments. Nick hands each of us a stack of papers and sends us off to our respective rooms to get started. It’s slow work, as we have to methodically dig through the lives of each and every person on our lists. Halfway through mine, I get fed up with all the dead ends.

            “I can’t do this!” I close my laptop and scoot back my desk chair.

            “Take a break, then. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone,” Clint shrugs. “Besides, you’ve done a lot already today.”

            “If only Nick could see things the same way,” I sigh, laying down on the bed. “I understand that this is important, but why can’t we just hunt down Timur Gorokhin? You all know how proficient I am at getting information out of people.”

            “What if he doesn’t talk, though? You never know if he’ll be hiding a cyanide capsule in case he gets caught.”

            “Oh, come on, Clint. He’s just a _kid_. I doubt he’s all that important within the secret society,” I groan, annoyed that my husband’s playing devil’s advocate yet again.

            “All the more reason for us to find someone of a higher rank.”

            “But the thing is, the higher ranking members of any underground organization are usually shrouded in secrecy; it’s the lower level members that typically slip up. Even if they’re on our lists, the odds of us finding anything incriminating are slim to none—they’re too careful.”

            “Okay, that’s a fair point,” Clint concedes. “Regardless, I’m going to keep working just in case there’s something to find. And I really don’t need to face Nick’s wrath this week.”

            “I’m so accustomed to him being mad at me that I don’t even care anymore. He knows he needs me, so there’s nothing he can do if I slack off a bit.”

            “My only concern is he may send the kids home.”

            “Fuck! That’s definitely something he would do…” I reluctantly sit up. “Fine, I’ll keep working. But first, I’m gonna run out and get coffee.”

            “ _You’re_ going to drink _coffee_? Who are you and what did you do with my tea-obsessed wife?”

            “Oh, ha ha. I need a boatload of caffeine, and coffee’s the easiest way for me to get it. Do you want anything or not?”

            “Sure. Just get me whatever, I’m not picky.”

            “You got it. Cover for me while I’m gone?”

            “Don’t I always?” Clint grins as I slip out into the hallway. Hushed voices from around the corner draw my attention. I sidle up along the wall, getting as close as I can without compromising my position.

            “Don’t you get it, Danny? They’re gonna kill me if they find out who I am!” The man’s voice is gravelly and strained.

            “Relax, ya big baby. How would they even know your name? It’s not like I’m gonna tell ‘em who ya are.” A man with a much softer, though heavily accented voice replies. “And how many times do I gotta say it? Stop callin’ me Danny!”

            “Right, sorry. Do you prefer Jordan now, or your code name?”

            “Use ma alias, ya idiot! ‘Specially since we’re meetin’ in tha hallway. Why can’t ya just come inside ma room?”

            “I don’t trust those people you’re with. What if they bugged it?”

            “Why on Earth would they bug ma room? They got no clue who I really am.”

            “But Corsac, what if they figure it out? I’m not ready to die!”

            “If ya don’t shut up about it, they’re sure as hell gonna find out! And Corsac is ma code name, not ma alias!” The man sighs heavily. “C’mon, Ro, I could use some dinner. Who knows when those pricks are gonna need me to take ‘em somewhere.”

            Their footsteps recede down the hall, leaving me standing in stunned silence. _Corsac. Like the fox. The tattoo. And that had to be Jordan Wilkinson, right? Oh my God. I need to find Nick!_

            I relay everything I overheard to my increasingly unhappy boss, who’s now kicking himself for not installing a camera in that hallway yet.

            “What’s our next move?” I ask, pacing the length of Nick’s room.

            “Not ours. Mine.” Nick’s expression is stern. “You have work to finish. I’ll handle this.”

            “Just like you handled it before, right?” I snort. “If you had let me take care of it, there would already be a camera in that hallway! We would have that entire conversation recorded, and I wouldn’t have to keep running back here with information!”

            “That’s enough, Romanoff. I gave you a job to do, and I expect you to comply. _I_ will figure out what to do about this. When your job is done, maybe you can help. But until then, go back to your room.”

            “You want to shut me out? Fine. But don’t expect me to just sit around and watch this all fall apart.” I storm out of Nick’s room in a huff, sick of being treated like a new agent. This is my mission, goddammit, and if it comes down to it, I will do it alone.

            “Where’s the coffee?” Clint asks as I walk back into our room.

            “Forget the coffee—I don’t need it anymore!” I snap.

            “Woah, Nat.” Clint looks up at me in surprise. “Come sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

            I take a few deep breaths to steady myself before launching into what happened in the last few minutes. By the end of my story, my hands are still clenched and shaking slightly.

            “I don’t get him. This is happening _here_ and _now_ , yet he wants me to ignore it? I can’t do that!”

            “I know, honey. But Nick is just as stubborn as you are!” Clint sighs as he massages my shoulders. “Actually, I have an idea. What did Jordan call the other guy?”

            “Ro. But I don’t know if that’s an alias.”

            “To me, it sounds like Ro isn’t as careful as Jordan is. Maybe he’s on one of our lists.”

            “Clint, you’re a genius!” I turn and kiss him quickly. “I’ve gotta tell the others to be on the lookout for any name that could be shortened to Ro!”

            “Do you want to check our lists first?” Clint calls after me as I dash into the hallway.

            “Sorry! Too far away to hear you! I guess you’ll have to do it yourself!” I yell back. I can hear Clint laugh just before the door closes behind me.


	7. Chapter 7

            After looking through all of our lists, we’re able to narrow it down to only a few names. Luckily, I actually saw Ro earlier, so I’m able to identify him by his profile picture. His full name is Rodion Dultsev, he’s 30, and it doesn’t look like he’s been able to hold a job. It’s unclear how he knows Jordan (or whatever his name _really_ is), but I bet we’ll find out when we bring them in.

            I call for a meeting to fill everyone in on what I know, and with the support of Clint, I insist we lay a trap for Jordan and Rodion. Seeing as we haven’t really done anything about it since we got here, I’m anxious to eliminate the problem. There’s no use waiting any longer.

            “Wouldn’t it be easier to follow them around to see where they go?” Maria suggests. “We’d probably get more useful information that way.”

            “It’s a waste of man hours, and, as far as I know, they haven’t gone very far,” I retort. “Besides, I don’t think Jordan would risk blowing his cover by going anywhere important. He’s too careful.”

            “And they may not be as central to the whole operation as our other lead, Timur.” Clint stands to join me at the head of the table. “You all know how good Nat is at getting information out of people, so why would we waste the opportunity to let her try?”

            “I suppose we do need to take action eventually,” Nick sighs. “Okay, you can try, but first, we need to iron out a few wrinkles. Where, might I ask, do you plan to hold and interrogate them?”

            “You seem to be forgetting I grew up here. I know a place.” I roll my eyes. “Anything else?”

            “How do you plan to capture and transport them?”

            “I brought enough chloroform to knock out a herd of elephants, and the limo definitely has enough space for two unconscious men.”

            “Fair enough. Alright, you have full control of this operation. I trust you’ll be successful on your own, but let me know if you need anything.”

            “Actually, I’m going to need a few of those cameras you brought with…”

            I install the cameras in various strategic locations throughout the hotel to track the movements of the two men. Nick also had a few bugs stashed in his luggage, so I swipe a master key from maintenance and scatter some in Jordan’s room, just in case we need them. At my suggestion, Clint enlists the help of Charlie and Isaac, who deserve a chance to prove themselves to our boss. Then, chloroform, rags, and rope in hand, we wait next to my laptop for Jordan and Rodion to show up on the screen.

            “Remind me again why we’re using chloroform instead of your stingers?” Clint asks, looking down at the unusually simple tools in his hands.

            “Because I only brought a few, and I want to save them for when we have bigger fish to fry. Now hush! I think I see them!”

            Sure enough, they pass the camera I set up in the lobby. Slight bulges in the backs of their jackets inform me that they’re both armed with small handguns. Shouldn’t be a problem. They disappear into the elevator, and the LED screen shows it stopping on the fourth floor. Perfect. I switch screens and catch them heading towards Jordan’s room. It’s time to move.

            Silently, we file into the hallway, each of us focused on our individual part of the plan. Clint uses the master key to get to a hiding spot within Jordan’s room. Charlie travels past it a bit to hide around the next corner. Isaac falls back, staying with me in the stretch of hallway our rooms are located in. As agreed upon, I’m completely unarmed; not that I need weapons of any sort to defend myself, but still. I can’t look like I’m a threat.

            Their voices carry down to us, and as soon as they seem to be close to Jordan’s room, I spring into action. Casually strolling around the corner, I feign surprise at their presence.

            “Hey!” I smile. “Just the man I was looking for! Joe, was it?”

            “Uh, it’s Jordan, ma’am.” He nervously glances back at Rodion before stepping between us. “Is there somethin’ I can help ya with?”

            “There is! There’s this little shop just outside the city that I’m _dying_ to visit, and I was wondering if you could take me there?”

            “Ya want ta go shoppin’?” His posture visibly relaxes. “Alright. When would ya like ta leave?”

            “As soon as possible, if you don’t mind. You see, since I’m technically working while we’re here, I know I won’t get a lot of free time. I’ve gotta take advantage of it while I can, you know?” I shrug, the smile still plastered on my face.

            “I undastand. Just let me grab tha keys real quick, and then we can go.”

            “Thanks for doing this, Jordan.”

            He turns towards his room, closely followed by Rodion. Neither of them take notice of Charlie and Isaac stealthily creeping up behind them. Isaac quietly knocks out Rodion just as Jordan gets his door open and is surprised by Clint. Within seconds, both men are lying on the floor, Charlie expertly binding their hands together with the rope. Phase one complete.

            Phase two requires some additional help; Steve and Bucky join us to carry our prisoners into the underground garage. For privacy, I temporarily knock out the hotel’s security system. Lucky for us, they only have cameras directed towards elevators and exits. As quickly as possible, we head down to the garage and stash the men in the back of the limo, where Charlie and Isaac will watch over them. Clint and I slide into the front seats, and we’re good to go.

            “Natasha, wait.” Steve places a hand on the roof of the limo.

            “What now?” I roll down the driver side window.

            “Are you _sure_ you don’t want us to come with?”

            “I’ve already got three extra sets of hands—I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

            “I know that, I just…” Steve sighs.

            “You want to be part of the action, don’t you?”

            “I’m not really used to sitting on the sidelines,” Steve shrugs somewhat sheepishly.

            “You’ve got that right,” Bucky snorts.

            “Sorry, Steve,” I bite my bottom lip, “but I’ve got this covered. Maybe you can lead the rest of the team in creating a plan to take care of Timur?”  
            “I guess so…”

            “Look, I’ve gotta go before they wake up. We’ll be back in a few hours.”

            “Fine. Good luck.” Steve steps back and waves, watching us pull out of the parking complex. I feel for him, but I also know I can handle this with the few people I have with me. Besides, the less people that know about where we’re going, the better.

            “So where are we headed?” Clint asks after a while.

            “There’s this place I know. Hopefully it’s still abandoned,” I say vaguely.

            “And if it’s not?”

            “Then we go to ‘Plan B,’” I shrug.

            “Which is?” Clint fishes for any information he can get out of me.

            “Unimportant if ‘Plan A’ works out.” Though my eyes are still trained on the road ahead of us, watching for familiar landmarks, I see Clint’s face fall slightly, his brow furrowing. He really hates it when I keep things from him. Maybe when we reach our destination he’ll at least begin to understand why I don’t want to tell him more than I absolutely have to.

            About ten minutes of tense silence later, I turn down a winding gravel road. A small town comes into view, though it’s unlike towns most people are used to seeing; dressed in clothes that have been out of style for decades, the cheery townsfolk wander from shop to shop. None of the buildings have more than two floors. Cars are few and far between. It’s almost as if this town doesn’t experience the passage of time the same way the rest of the world does.

            “Seriously, Nat?” Clint turns to me after taking in the scene before him. “You want to conduct an interrogation here?”

            “Not exactly.” I purse my lips. “I just… I can’t believe it…”

            “It’s clearly not abandoned. I think it’s about time you fill me in on ‘Plan B.’”

            “This place looks _exactly_ the same as it was 20 years ago when I left…”

            “How is that even possible?”

            “It… it shouldn’t be…” I roll to a stop, the curious townsfolk eyeing us as they go about their business. A knock comes from the divider behind me. I slide it open and Isaac’s head pops through.

            “Where are we?”

            “Not quite there yet,” I respond tersely.

            “Then why did we stop?”

            “Don’t worry about it. How are the prisoners?”

            “They started to stir a bit, so we gave them another whiff of the chloroform. We should be good for a while. How close are we?”

            “Very. Go sit back down.”

            “Okay.” His head disappears back into the spacious seating area. I roll the divider back up and am surprised to hear another knock, though this time, it’s coming from my window. A woman, maybe ten years my senior, waves politely from the other side of the glass. I cautiously roll the window down a few inches.

            “Yes?”

            “I’m so sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help notice you parked here. We don’t typically get many visitors in our neck of the woods, but I have to say, you look mighty familiar!”

            “I guess I have one of those faces,” I shrug, hoping she’ll leave us alone.

            “There was this young woman who lived nearby a few years back—though, of course, she was just a babe—but maybe there’s some relation? The people she lived with were terribly frightening, though she was as sweet as a sugar plum, that she was! Now darn, I can’t seem to recall her name!” The woman tapped her chin with a long, cherry painted fingernail. Her mousy brown hair shivered in the slight breeze, though the chill in the air didn’t seem to faze her. “Nadine, was it?”

            “Nope, no relation,” I say quickly, one hand hovering over the automatic window controls. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re kind of in a rush.”

            “Where ya headed? There’s nothing out here but the town and a few empty warehouses. And surely you don’t have any business out in those places.”

            “Actually, we’re ghost hunters,” I lie through my teeth, “so don’t be alarmed at the sounds you may hear coming from the old building down the road.”

            “Ghost hunters? My, oh my, that’s awful scary!” The woman involuntarily steps back.

            “It’s not all that bad. But if you would be so kind as to not mention it to the rest of the town, we’d be eternally grateful.” I lower my voice, gazing out at the many people staring at us.

            “Oh! Of course! Well, I wish you luck in your adventures! Sorry about intruding!” She shuffled away, back toward the shop she likely emerged from. I slowly let out the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

            “What was that all about? Do you know her?” Clint’s eyes plead for the truth.

            “Yes,” I whisper, looking down. “Her name is Elizaveta, though she doesn’t look anywhere near twenty years older than the last time I saw her.”

            “How do you know each other?”

            “She was kind to me in a time when no one else was. I’ll explain more later. For now, we have to keep moving.”

            Maneuvering around the crowd, I drive down a side street that takes us into a wooded area. Before long, a large, dilapidated building looms ahead. The nondescript gray exterior provides no clues as to the horrors that occurred within its walls. Even in the shadows of the trees, the heavy steel bars on the inside of the windows are visible. I swallow the lump in my throat as I park out front, every bone in my body screaming for me to stay in the car. Clint reaches for his door handle but pauses when he notices I haven’t moved.

            “Nat, are you okay?”

            “I… I will be. I just need a moment before we head inside.” I turn my head away from him so he can’t see the fear in my eyes.

            “What is it?” He moves as close as his seat will allow, his tone soft. “Was it seeing Elizaveta again?”

            “That was unexpected, but no, it’s not that. I can’t really explain it right now. Please, help Charlie and Isaac get the guys out of the car. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

            “Are you sure—”

            “Please, get out of the car,” I say a little more harshly than intended. Though I can’t see it, I feel Clint recoil and slowly climb out of the car. His door slams shut just as the first tear escapes the corner of my eye. Great. Now I’m starting to push him away again.

            The divider muffles their voices as they struggle to drag our suspects out of the car, though a few of the words are clearer than others. I can hear Charlie ask if I’m alright, and Clint brushes her off with a blanket statement about my current condition. _She’s been through a lot lately. She needs a moment to herself._ I swear, that’s all I’ve been hearing from those close to me. My whole life has been tough, and people are always making excuses for me. It’s time I get my emotions back under control.

            Wiping my eyes, I pull myself together and get out of the car. Without glancing back, I get closer to the front door to examine the rusted lock, which hangs from chains intertwined in the handles. I expertly pick the lock, throwing the chains to the ground and pushing my way inside. The hinges groan as the doors reluctantly swing open, revealing a narrow entryway. Clint and Isaac drag Jordan and Rodion into the doorway, Charlie trailing behind them. They pause to take in the musty smell, countless cobwebs, and dozen or so hallways branching off from the main entrance.

            “Follow me.” Taking a deep, reassuring breath, I step into the building and guide the others down hallway after hallway. Just like everything else in this town, the hallways are long and winding, very easy to get lost in. We pass some hastily boarded up rooms, the dim, filtered sunlight trickling in between the bars and falling onto dust laden furniture. One room in particular causes me to pause for a beat before carrying on. At the end of the hallway, we reach a metal staircase. Wordlessly, we climb two flights. I can feel the uncertainty radiating off Charlie and Isaac as they blindly follow me deeper into this maze of a building. Down one last hallway lies our destination: a large training room.

            Half a dozen chairs are scattered throughout the room, the legs bolted to the floor and heavy straps attached at key locations. Next to each chair is a small drain and an empty weapons rack.

            “Um, Natasha?” Charlie asks, her voice shaky. “Where exactly are we, and how do you know your way around so well?”

            “Kid, there’s a lot you don’t know about me. I already told you that I grew up in Russia, though my upbringing was not one anybody would consider normal. During my training, I was moved around a lot. The people in charge of the Red Room didn’t want us forming attachments to _anything_ , not even the place we lived. We moved here when I was 14. In fact, we passed my old room on our way up here. I shared it with a girl named Yelena…” The echoes of barked orders and words of discouragement still ring in my ears, the familiar places conjuring up repressed memories of my youth. Back when I was never sure if I’d survive to see the next day.

            Lost in thought, my eyes sweep the room, taking in the unforgettable layout, which is only missing the large stashes of lethal instruments. My focus falls back on Charlie, whose wide eyes and dropped jaw draw me back to the present. “But that’s all in the past,” I shrug, striding over to the nearest chair. “If you really care to know more, we can discuss it at a later time. For now, we need to get Jordan and Rodion strapped into these chairs before they wake up.”

            “Nat?” Clint places a hand on my arm. “What’s the plan here? It doesn’t look like there were any weapons left behind.”

            “Of course not, we gutted the place. Did you seriously think I came unprepared?” I snort. “You guys get them tied up nice and tight, and I’ll go get a knife kit out of the car.” Retracing my steps, I book it out of there. Though I’ve all but perfected my poker face over the years, it can be hard to keep it together for long periods of time, especially after recent events. After a few deep breaths, I pop the trunk. Feeling along the lining, I flip the hidden latch to reveal a fingerprint reader. Once my identity is confirmed, I’m able to raise the false bottom. Stashed away in hidden compartments lie bundles of weapons for various occasions. Clearly not standard issue, but I always make Nick stock the trunks of all our mission vehicles, just in case we need weapons on the run. Today, my paranoia is paying off.

            I run my fingers over the knives, deliberating on which ones are best suited to the task at hand. Unable to decide, I pick my go-to pack, which has the most variety of blades. I set the false bottom back into place and reset the latch before slamming the trunk shut. Back in control, I head upstairs to get to work.

            Jordan and Rodion are just waking up as I enter the training room. Their confusion quickly turns to fear as they notice the thick straps binding them to the chairs and the glinting knives in my left hand. I can already tell this is going to be fun.

            “Alright, who’s first?” I smile menacingly, savoring the looks of sheer terror coming from my soon-to-be victims. It quickly becomes clear which one is more accustomed to guarding secrets, as Rodion takes several steadying breaths while Jordan starts visibly shaking. “Jordan it is.”

            The tip of one of my knives barely grazes Jordan’s cheek before he starts to break down. Tears roll down his face, his body contorting in an attempt to move away from me. I place a hand on the back of his neck—forcing him to look up at me—and place the cool, flat edge of my knife against his throat.

            “Who are you really, _Jordan_?” I hiss in his ear. “Or do you prefer _Danny_?”

            “P-please,” he stutters. “I d-don’t know a-anything!”

            “I’ll be the judge of that. What. Is. Your. Name?”

            “Mah name’s Daniel, ma’am.”

            “Daniel _what_?”

            “Daniel Krushnic O’Meara,” he whispers, his voice catching on the last syllable.

            “Krushnic?” I stand up and reevaluate him. Unlike the rest of the Krushnics I’ve seen, Daniel has fair skin and light eyes. His hair is dark, but that’s about where the similarities end. “How are you a Krushnic?”

            “It’s mah mother’s name.”

            “That must mean…” I think back to my conversations with Dmitri before he died. Jordan/Daniel looks to be around 24, so there’s no way he could be Katerina’s kid unless she had him before she was even a teenager. But don’t they have an older sister? One that they haven’t seen since she was 18? “Your mother is Dmitri’s older sister, right?”

            “Yes’m. Larisa Krushnic. But please, she has nothin’ tah do with any ah this! She’d kill me if she knew I’d snuck away tah Russia!” Daniel pleads, the tears coming faster.

            “What about your father? O’Meara is Irish, if I’m not mistaken.”

            “…Yes’m. But mah daddy didn’t stick around long after I was born. Ma just let me keep his last name so I’d know where I come from.”

            “Alright, let’s say you’re telling the truth. I take it Larisa doesn’t approve of your uncle and grandfather’s involvement in a secret society?” I start pacing, my knife gently swinging as I walk, my eyes never leaving Daniel’s face.

            “Not in tha least. But they’re family! I had tah meet them!”

            “Who exactly did you meet here?”

            “Just Uncle Dmitri and Grandpa Leonid. They recommended that I don’t meet tha others. Somethin’ about it being a stressful time and them not needin’ the shock of learnin’ of mah existence.”

            “Yes, stressful indeed. Your aunt’s dying.”

            “What? How long does she have?”

            “Not long. Not that it matters to you, since you’ll never be free to go see her. Or the rest of your family, for that matter.”

            “Holy hell. I finally learn about mah family, and then they start dyin’ on me.” Daniel drops his eyes, his voice nothing but a rough whisper.

            “Well, that’s partially their own fault. At least, Dmitri and Leonid dug their own graves.”

            “Are…” Daniel swallows the lump in his throat, “are you tha one who killed ’em?”

            “Leonid was taken out by a close friend of mine, but yes, I killed Dmitri. And let me tell you, it was an absolute _pleasure_ to torture him, plunge my knife into his chest, and watch the life leave his eyes,” I snarl, resting my hands on his wrists as I bring my face within inches of his. He flinches, his eyes quickly closing to escape my stare. “Now, _Corsac_ , tell me more about the Cult of the Dagger.”

            “I don’t know much, I swear! Mah only real connection other than mah family is Ro here!”

            “Don’t bring me into this, you idiot!” Rodion growls, his jaw clenched. “I should have never let you stay with me!” I slowly back away from Daniel in anticipation of the fight I instigated.

            “Oh, please. When a member of the Grand Council asks ya for a favor, ya don’t say no!” Daniel shoots back.

            “Well of course not! Leonid was next in line to become Grand Master if anything ever happened to Andrey! And now that these jackasses killed him AND his son, we have to go through the voting process all over again!”

            “I didn’t know him well, but from what I gathered, Leonid was unqualified tah run any organization, so ya probably woulda had tah vote again even if he became Grand Master!”

            “His family started Культ Кинжал [the Cult of the Dagger]! We would have respected his right to rule!”

            “That’s _mah_ family, too, ya know! Does that mean _I_ have tha right tah rule?”

            “Of course not, you moron! Leonid was raised in the traditions of Культ Кинжал, just like I was! You’re a bastard child and your own family doesn’t even know you exist! You seem to be forgetting that my father is part of the Grand Council as well, so even though we aren’t from a founding family, I’m lightyears closer to running this thing than you are!”

            Both men are beet red at this point, aggravated beyond belief. Charlie and Isaac, who have never watched me run an interrogation before now, are dumbstruck, their jaws dropping more and more the longer I let our prisoners scream at each other. Who knew it would be so easy to get information out of them?

            “Боже мой, что я сделал? [My God, what have I done?]” Rodion looks up at me, finally realizing how much he revealed in his screaming match with Daniel.

            “именно то что я хотел чтобы вы сделать [Exactly what I wanted you to do],” I smirk, incredibly pleased with how well my plan to turn them against each other worked. “See how easy that was?” I turn around to face the kids. “Now, in a one-on-one interrogation, things tend to get a bit… _messier_ before you get anything useful. When you have two suspects, you just have to find the right button to push so they turn on each other. Sometimes offering one a deal can get them to flip on their partner, but I guess we never reached that point here.”

            Pacing again, I address Daniel and Rodion. “Thanks, boys, for doing all the work for me! If Daniel hadn’t thrown you under the bus so quickly, it might’ve taken me a while to get you riled up enough about something. So. Let’s recap what we’ve learned: Daniel is Larisa’s daughter, Leonid was a Grand Council member—as is Rodion’s father, I’m assuming Dmitri was prepped to take over for Leonid, the Grand Master is named Andrey, the Krushnics were a founding family but the Dultsevs were not. Oh, and Leonid was set to take over as Grand Master in the wake of tragedy, but now since both he and Dmitri are dead, there’s no one that could lead the secret society if something happens to Andrey. Anything I missed?”

            Rodion silently glowers at me, the rage burning in his eyes suggesting he’d kill me if he had the chance. Although he’s doing his best to look tough, guilt slightly clouds his eyes, likely gnawing away at his self-confidence; he knows he screwed up _badly_. For a moment, I glimpse the terrified young man I overheard in the hallway a few hours ago.

            “Looks like that’s all you’re going to get out of them right now,” Clint sighs, stepping forward. “That is, unless you provide the proper _motivation_.”

            “I think you’re right, honey,” I smile, raising my knife once again. “I wonder, how much blood can someone lose before they pass out?”

            “I’m not sure,” Clint smiles. “Maybe I should take the kids out of here and let you figure it out.”

            “That sounds like a great idea! Just to warn you, though, this might take a while.” If I’m going to torture someone for information, I have to do it the right way: slowly and painfully.

            “Take your time! We’ll be outside.” Clint opens the door, motioning for Charlie and Isaac to follow him. They exchange troubled, slightly disappointed looks before reluctantly leaving. Hopefully Clint will explain that they probably don’t want to witness what comes next; it’s bad enough they’ll have to see the aftermath of it.


	8. Chapter 8

            After about an hour of slicing into flesh, I decide Daniel really doesn’t know anything else, and Rodion would rather die before he gives away any more secrets. Due to his lack of knowledge, Daniel’s in pretty good shape, but Rodion’s on the verge of unconsciousness; I’d wager he had about 12 pints of blood in him before we started, and now almost 2 pints decorate the floor and drain. In order to give his wounds enough time to clot, I head outside to rejoin the others.

            Clint’s alone, casually leaning up against the driver’s side door, talking quietly into his phone; it appears Charlie and Isaac decided to wait inside the limo. As soon as he spots me, Clint terminates his call.

            “How’d it go?” He grins, shoving his hands into his pockets.

            “It’s no use,” I sigh. “Daniel clearly knows nothing, and Rodion clammed up real quick.”

            “That sucks. How bad do they look?”

            “Well, Rodion could probably use some medical attention,” I chuckle darkly. “Want to help me bring them out? I can call Nick to arrange transport.”

            “Of course. Lead the way!”

            We clean the knives in a nearby sink—which, shockingly, is still connected to a water supply—and chloroform my victims for hopefully the last time. With a little bit of elbow grease and a whole lot of determination, we drag the unconscious men back outside and into the limo. Obvious alarm shines in the kids’ eyes when we hand over Daniel and Rodion, but they quickly recover and secure the prisoners. Clint and I head back inside to attempt to remove any trace that we were here; it’s bad enough that Elizaveta knows where we went, we don’t want anyone knowing what we did. Semi-recreational torture is frowned upon in most societies.

            Once we’re done, I call Nick to let him know I’m finished with Daniel and Rodion. We discuss our next course of action and finally decide to send them to one of our various raft prisons relatively nearby. Only somewhat satisfied with the outcome of this endeavor, we head back to our hotel. About halfway there, my curiosity gets the better of me.

            “Who were you talking to on the phone earlier?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

            “Just Steve. He was wondering how things were going and wanted to update us on what’s been happening while we’ve been gone.” Clint runs a hand through his hair. “Basically, they’ve only discovered where Timur lives, and since that took them forever to find, they haven’t even started cross-checking names of Timur and Rodion’s mutual friends. It probably won’t help much, but I told Steve Jordan’s real name so that they can look into him, too.”

            “Smart. Too bad they haven’t been able to do much without us.”

            “At least we can find Timur,” Clint shrugs.

            “I guess. I was hoping for more information, but we’ll have to make do with what we’re given.”

            “You’re not just talking about Timur, are you?” Clint leans closer to study my expression. “I knew it! Nat, don’t be so hard on yourself! Rodion gave us a lot of information, and it’s not your fault that you couldn’t get more out of him!”

            “But I’m supposed to be this master interrogator that can get anything out of anybody, and I’ve failed!”

            “You didn’t fail! We learned a lot today because of your interrogation skills, including the fact that Rodion is fiercely loyal to the Cult of the Dagger. Getting more information from him would probably be almost as difficult as getting anything from _you_.”

            “…I hate it when you make sense.”

            “I know you do,” he laughs. “So stop beating yourself up over this. We’re going to find Timur, and I’m sure he’ll be helpful in some way, shape, or form.”

            “I hope so.”

            “This kid is the one that allowed you to figure out the meaning of the tattoo; he can’t be all that bright if he posted cult secrets online. Plus, you’re the best damn interrogator I’ve ever met. Everything will work out.”

            “Will it, though?” I turn to face him as we reach a stoplight. “That’s exactly what I thought last time, and look where that got us. After everything that happened when I grew up here, I swore I would never come back. When Nick asked me to, I assumed it would be fine given my extensive training. _It wasn’t_. And yet, here I am, back in this God-awful country yet again, getting taken for a fool. I know you’re trying to be optimistic and keep me from going down dark paths, but I think we all need a reality check. Sometimes, things don’t work out. We know the members of this secret society are planning something big, and with how little we’ve accomplished so far, there’s a good chance we’re going to be too late to stop whatever it is. You know I love you and your positive attitude, but right now, we need to face the truth: without a miracle or spontaneous confession, we’re not going to be able to save everyone.”

            “Nat, when have we _ever_ been able to save everyone?” Clint’s eyes search my face. “Like you said, it would take a miracle. All these years, all the jobs we’ve done, you know we do everything we can and hope for the best. There’s always casualties that we have no control over. I know it’s hard, especially when you’ve met the unlucky ones and your best just isn’t enough to save them, but we have to push on. We can’t sacrifice the lives of many just to save the lives of a few. In our line of work, we have to focus solely on the big picture. I know you know this already, but a reminder to reevaluate your priorities can never hurt.”

            “I know, I—” A cacophony of blaring horns brings my attention back to the green light in front of me. “I hate not knowing the danger that’s looming ahead. In the past, I’ve _always_ been able to figure out the bad guy’s play: Vanko taking control of Rhodey’s suit, Loki’s plans for Banner, Pierce’s use of the new Helicarriers, all of it! Even Dmitri was predictable in the beginning! But now, I feel like I keep getting hit by left hooks that come out of thin air to disorient me!”

            “Nat, for most people, that’s _normal_. You are an extraordinary woman, and I have full confidence that you’ll be able to figure this all out, even if you’re not so sure. It just takes time to sort out the various odds and ends we’ve accumulated into something that makes sense.”

            “Why do you have to be so goddamn positive all the time? You make it hard to maintain my sour mood,” I glower, only half-serious.

            “Because it’s my job. Remember our vows? ‘In sickness and health, good times and bad, etc. etc.’ As promised, I bring the good times, you bring the bad,” Clint smiles and shrugs.

            “Oh really? You almost dying on multiple occasions qualifies as you bringing the ‘good times?’” I smirk.

            “Okay, fine,” Clint chuckles, “so I’m kinda bad at my job, At least I try?”

            “You certainly do,” I laugh. “Crap, did I just miss my turn?”

            “No, we’ve got a few more blocks,” Clint says, looking down at his phone.

            “Okay good. I wish Nick would give us an address rather than coordinates.”

            “He has to make everything difficult, doesn’t he?”

            “God, you don’t know the half of it,” I sigh as I turn down a dusty road that winds through thick woods. The moonlight filtering down is dim and faintly green. For a few miles, there seems to be nothing here, as if we’re traveling into uncharted, or at the very least, uninhabited territory. Clint glances back and forth between our surroundings and the GPS, clearly unsure if we’re headed in the right direction. Finally, we pass a small house, tucked away in an opening in the trees.

            “Was that it?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.

            “According to the GPS, yeah, but that can’t possibly be the meet-up point, can it?”

            “Only one way to find out!” Angling the limo, I carefully turn it around on the narrow dirt road. I slow down as we near the house, parking so the headlights just barely reach the front door. No cars are parked out front, but the driveway seems to continue around the back. The brick red paint on the house is peeling in places, and it looks as if it’s been deserted for years. A nondescript Russian flag hangs from the porch, its colors surprisingly faded from the sun. A small, tan barn sits off to the left of the house, its hinges rusted, one door hanging a bit askew.

            “I’m not so sure about this, Nat,” Clint whispers roughly.

            The dividing panel slides open again, and Charlie pops her head through. “What’s going on? Are we here?”

            “Maybe?” I shrug. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

            “Not without backup, you aren’t!” Clint protests.

            “Honey, I’ll be fine! Stay here with the kids, follow only if necessary.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek and hop out, quickly taking inventory of my weapons before approaching the driveway. As I near the front door, a light upstairs rapidly flickers; it takes me a second to recognize that the flashes of light correspond to Morse code letters. W-I-D-O-W. This has to be the right place.

            I knock on the door in Morse code, a simple Y-E-S to confirm my identity. A burly man, most likely in his mid to late forties peers out a side window before allowing me in. He introduces himself as Agent Barry Hanson, the warden of the floating prison we’re sending Daniel and Rodion to. I offer my hand, but he waves it away.

            “I know all too well not to shake hands, especially not with someone as dangerous as you,” he remarks gruffly. “No offense, ma’am.”

            “None taken,” I smile slightly, “I’m used to people not trusting me. Did Nick fill you in on our criminals?”

            “Aye. Director Fury was very clear that they are not to leave my sight until they are safely behind bars.”

            “Good. Is it just you transporting them?”

            “No, Agent Jones is on her way as we speak. I have the required restraints prepared in the other room, so I’ll have no problem maintaining control until she arrives.”

            “Excellent. My fellow agents and I will bring them in now, then.”

            By the time the five of us secure the prisoners inside the house, a car has pulled into the driveway. Out steps a tough looking blonde woman in a sleek red leather jacket. A S.H.I.E.L.D. badge hangs around her neck, which suggests she may have been a cop. She nods curtly to Agent Hanson as she walks in.

            “Sorry I’m late, traffic was terrible. My name is Emma Jones, and I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

            “Natasha Romanoff,” I smile and extend my hand. She firmly shakes it, her eyes widening as she registers who I am. A grin spreads across her face.

            “Holy hell, I can’t believe it—the famous Black Widow. Agent Romanoff, you’re the reason I joined S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

            “No way. Am I really?” I laugh.

            “Oh, yes, you’re my idol! I spent a few years as a bounty hunter, became the sheriff of a small town, and after closely following the news reports about you and the other Avengers, I decided to work my way up the ladder at S.H.I.E.L.D. I aspire to be like you some day.” Emma looks around the room quickly. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You must be Agent Barton!” She enthusiastically shakes Clint’s hand. “You’re absolutely fantastic as well! You two are the most badass power couple I’ve ever seen. I keep trying to convince Killian to come over to HQ, but he’s a bit too attached to his boat. But I digress.” She turns to Charlie and Isaac. “And you are?”

            The kids politely introduce themselves to the surprisingly talkative Agents Jones. Hanson clears his throat and tips his head towards Daniel and Rodion, who are just starting to wake up; their arms jerk slightly in the restraints, but they quickly realize they have no chance of getting out.

            “Hello, dearies,” Emma addresses them. “We’re about to go somewhere you’re not going to like much, but it’ll be your new home. I’ll be leaving you with Agent Hanson and some of our friends who have promised to take good care of you until someone higher up the chain decides to move you to a more _grounded_ location. Unfortunately, I won’t have the pleasure of watching you myself, but Hanson here is the warden, so he’ll make sure you’re both in good hands.” A smug smile flashes across her face.

            “Alright, Jones, let’s go.” Agent Hanson roughly pulls Rodion to his feet before shoving him towards the open door. Daniel stands of his own accord and shuffles behind them.

            “It’s been an honor meeting you both, really,” Emma beams, shaking our hands once more. “Well, I gotta run, but if you’re ever in Maine, feel free to look me up!”

            “Is this how all prisoner transfers go?” Isaac leans forward and asks quietly, his eyes still focused on Agents Hanson and Jones as they shove Daniel and Rodion into the car.

            “Um, not exactly,” I shrug. “Every now and then we come across an excitable agent, but it’s usually much more.... _serious_.”

            “Yeah, there’s rarely this much conversation,” Clint nods his assent.

            “Well, that’s it, kids! Daniel and Rodion are out of our hands now, so we’re free to go. Come on, let’s go get some sleep.”

            Several hours after we initially set out, we finally head back to the hotel. Even though we’re technically staying in the city, the outskirts around us are rather dark, allowing us to see the array of twinkling stars scattered in the vast swath of sky above us. As expected, I receive a text from Nick almost immediately after pulling into the garage.

            Conf rm 412. 5 mins.

            -N

Typical. It’s almost midnight, and Nick’s calling for yet another meeting. The fun never ends around here, does it?


	9. Chapter 9

            Annoyed and exhausted, the four of us trudge up the stairs to the fourth floor, where we’ll have yet another meeting; including impromptu ones, this will be my seventh of the day. Sure, I called for a few of those myself, but still. Seven meetings in less than 24 hours is ridiculous.

            Per usual, Nick’s seated at the head of the table, the rest of our bleary-eyed team members scattered amongst the many chairs lining the conference room walls. Except for Fury, no one looks particularly happy about this late-night endeavor. Actually, I take that back. Nick rarely looks happy about anything. I think I saw a hint of a smile when we took down Pierce, but I was also slightly unconscious for a brief period during that whole ordeal, so I can’t really be sure.

            “Alright, Nick, what now?” I sigh as I take a seat at the table, Clint and the kids following my lead.

            “Full mission report,” he replies without looking up from the notebook in front of him.

            “Can’t it wait? We’re exhausted.”

            “And run the risk of you forgetting potentially vital information? No way. Full mission report.”

            So as concisely as possible, we report the details and outcomes of our excursion. Nick takes notes in shorthand I can just hardly comprehend. Every now and then, he prompts us for more details, but for the most part, we’re uninterrupted. When we finish, I look around the room, but my gaze is not met by any of my barely conscious friends. Can’t Nick see how pointless having this meeting tonight is? We’re dismissed with the wave of a hand, Nick’s head still down, so the nine of us shuffle out the door, back to our respective rooms for some well-deserved rest.

            “Well that was weird,” Clint says, plopping down on our bed. “What’s up with Fury?”

            “Since when do you call him Fury?” I ask, slightly startled.

            “Since he started acting strange,” he shrugs in response, slipping out of his jacket. “Or is it just me that found his behavior bizarre?”

            “Eh, he gets like that sometimes. Mainly when he’s really tired or annoyed.”

            “Let’s hope for the former; I don’t think I can deal with him being grumpy again, especially when we haven’t done anything wrong.”

            “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” I yawn. “Goodnight, Clint.”

            “Goodnight, Nat.”

            Sunlight blares in through the half-closed blinds, rousing me awake much earlier than I had hoped. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:26, the soft red glow behind the numbers creating almost a semicircle of tinted light in front of it. From that small pool of red I grab my phone, where I find several messages from Nick.

            We need to discuss plan of action.

            -N

            Received 6:00 a.m.

 

            How are you still sleeping?

            -N

            Received 6:03 a.m.

 

            Fine, let me know when you get up.

            -N

            Received 6:05 a.m.

            _Technically_ , I haven’t gotten out of bed, so Nick can wait. The warmth emanating from Clint is so comforting, why would I want to get up yet?

            I curl up closer to him, resting my arm across his bare chest. That’s when I notice a patch of dried blood on my sleeve and realize I went to bed in yesterday’s clothes. Sighing heavily, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, already displeased with how this day is going.

            Watching the thin streaks of crimson in the water swirl down the drain, I’m surprised by how much of a mess I made last night during the interrogation. Usually, I end up with very little—if anything at all—on my clothes. Even my close range and hands-on hits are typically neat. Am I losing my touch?

            I reluctantly turn off the hot water, the steam dissipating as I dry off. After I get dressed, I throw yesterday’s clothes in the tub to soak in a chemical S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists developed to break down blood in fabrics. Other than during my last trip here, this is the first time I’ve used this chemical in about a year.

            I struggle to pull a comb through my mess of hair, the water having brought my curls back to life. People often wonder why I typically keep my hair straight, or at the very least, wavy. Yes, it would be faster for me to not mess with my natural curls, but they get so tangled during my average day that I end up spending a lot of time trying to get out the knots. Since I’m on a mission, it’s going to be straight again today.

            Finally ready, I text Nick and grab a granola bar out of my bag for breakfast. Clint snores softly on the bed next to me, one arm draped across his eyes. If I could, I’d stay in this moment for days; Clint looks so peaceful, his muscles relaxed, the worry lines on his face smoothed out. The stress that comes with our job is astronomical—it can take a toll on your mind and body. Why do we still do it? Maybe we should retire soon… We have enough money to live comfortably for the next several decades, given that we live that long. Maybe we should talk about it after this mission, go back home, try to start a family…

            Who am I kidding? I couldn’t stand not working while I recovered from the last mission, what makes me think I’d be able to handle not working for the rest of my life? Besides, I could never actually ask Clint to retire, it wouldn’t be fair to him. He loves this job more than he lets on, but I know he’d give it all up if I asked him to. No, I can’t do that. Not yet. If we ever conceive again, maybe. But not now.

            I lay back down next to Clint, my head resting on his chest. The rhythm of his heart pulsates through me. I close my eyes again, reveling in these brief moments of peacefulness, dispelling all thoughts of self-doubt. Before I know it, I’m asleep again.

            Back on the Helicarrier, strapped to the same grey metal table that always appears in this nightmare, my heart starts to race. I’m lucid dreaming, but without the use of my appendages, I’m helpless to do anything. As usual, Clint steps out of the shadows, but something’s different this time; his hands are held out before him, empty, palms up as he walks toward me. His eyes pan across the table. The dim bulb hanging from the ceiling above me does little to illuminate his face, but as far as I can see, he looks normal. The sounds of the rest of the team fighting Chitauri fades away, replaced by the strong beating of a heart. Clint reaches forward to undo the straps, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me closer. Darkness.

            I’m in the warehouse, chained to the wall and refusing to beg for my life. The door swings open and Dmitri struts in, confident he can break me. A silhouette appears behind him, a gun fires, and it’s done. Dmitri drops to the floor, lifeless. The pool of blood spreads until it reaches a drain, where if falls like a river into the depths of the plumbing system. Again, the pulse echoes throughout the room. The shooter steps forward, their shape indistinct. The shackles come off, and I’m in Clint’s arms. Darkness.

            A loaded pistol in my hand, a screaming young man tied to the chair twenty feet in front of me. His face is crimson, tears slipping down his cheeks like a light rain. My supervisor, her face stern, clutches a stopwatch in her right fist, her thumb hovering over the button. “Thirty seconds,” she barks, slamming her thumb down, starting my time. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger, effectively silencing the clamor. I turn. Another chair, another victim. “Twenty-five seconds,” the voice says. No hesitation. I turn. “Twenty seconds.” “Fifteen seconds.” “Ten seconds.” “Five seconds.” “Two seconds.” “Mission completed. Congratulations, Miss Romanova.”

            A gurney waits in the hallway for me. I’m lightly sedated as they take me to my graduation “ceremony.” It’s held in an operating room. I’m about to be horribly scarred in a way no one will ever see. The glint off a long-handled scalpel catches my eye. I can’t watch. More sedatives. Commotion. Clanging metal trays. Yelling. Gun shots. A blinding light. I pull at my restraints, trying to cover my face. No use. The screams fade away, my racing heart beat filling my ears. It slows noticeably as the sedatives kick in, and soon enough, I’m completely immobile. I get the faint sense that I’m being moved, but I can’t open my eyes to see what’s happening. A warm feeling spreads through my body, faint crackling and the scent of smoke surrounds me. Darkness.

            My eyes open again, though I’m not exactly sure what I’m seeing. The details of my surroundings are fuzzy, but as soon as I look down and see the pale pink nightgown, I know exactly where I am. Stalingrad, Russia. My childhood home. Suddenly it’s warm, the scorching heat drawing beads of sweat from my skin. Smoke fills the air, my eyes, my lungs. I’m screaming, but the sound that comes out is not my voice. It’s raw, raspy. Two words I haven’t said in a long time tear out of my throat. “Матъ! Отец!” Mother! Father!

            In my mind, I know this is where they die. This is the night where I meet Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov, the Soviet soldier who saved my life. But the timing is wrong. He should be here by now. I’m not supposed to be trapped this long. Another nearby explosion rocks the foundation of my house, the walls crumbling before my eyes. I try to inhale, but can’t, the smoke becoming too thick, too quickly. Is this how they felt as they suffocated, unable to get past the debris blocking their bedroom door? Did they know I was still alive?

            “Наталъя? [Natalia?]” A voice cuts through the crackling flames. “Любимая? [Darling?]” Dad? Impossible. The lack of oxygen must be making me delirious. Surely it’s Ivan.

            “Лисичка? [Little fox?]” No. No, no, no, no, no. I’m dying. I can’t breathe, I’m dying, and my parents are calling to me from the other side. That must be what’s happening. Who else would know my mother’s nickname for me? Who else could imitate her voice?

            I’m on the floor, trying to get beneath the smoke. Failing. My bed’s on fire, driving me farther into the center of my room. The wall under the window is engulfed in flames, blocking my only safe exit. Ash sifts down through the smoke, covering my body as I curl up in the fetal position. This is the end.

            The door opens, someone rushes in, and I’m dragged out of the house. An oxygen mask is firmly strapped to my face, and the pure air is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. My lungs burn as I breathe deeply, causing me to cough violently. But I’m _alive_. I can hear my heart thumping in my chest.

            “Лисичка?” I hear again, the worry fading from it as I turn toward its source. “Лисичка!” My mother rushes over to me, her clothes singed, but she’s in one piece.

            “Матъ?” I try to ask, but all that comes out is a scratchy whisper followed by another violent coughing fit. My father’s there, too, his brilliant green eyes lighting up at the sight of me. How can this be? Who saved us?

            A man in a gas mask wanders over, bringing my parents their own oxygen masks. The build is wrong; it can’t be Ivan. He turns to look at me, but because of the tinted mask, I can’t see his face. I look down at my tattered night gown, the body of a scared young girl covered in ash and slight burns hidden beneath it. The man takes my hand, his touch familiar.

            “You okay, Nat?” He asks in perfect English as he removes his mask. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him immediately. Maybe because it’s impossible for him to be here. Impossible for him to look the same as he did the day I married him. Darkness.

            “Nat? Nat, you need to get up!” His voice pierces through the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. I latch on to the rhythm of his heart, willing it to pull me back to the safety of consciousness.

            “What time is it?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. My hands come away speckled with black and golden brown. Shit, I just smeared makeup across my face.

            “It’s almost 8, and your phone has been ringing like crazy!”

            “Fuck, that means I’ve been asleep for an hour. Nick must be pissed as hell.”

            “Are you okay? You were whimpering in your sleep.”

            “I, uh, had a series of weird dreams. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I need to find Nick.”

            “Honey, you might want to look in a mirror first. Unless, of course, you’re going for a raccoon look today.”

            “Shit, yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Being disoriented will do that to you.” I grab my makeup bag and head to the bathroom, hoping it’ll be a quick fix. It’s not.

            “Do you want to talk about whatever it is you dreamt about?” Clint sits on the bathroom counter, watching me scrub my face clean and start from scratch.

            “The best explanation is probably all of the moments—real and potential—that I felt most vulnerable and helpless. It started with you trying to kill me on the Helicarrier. But you spared me. In every dream, you saved my life. The warehouse, the Red Room, hell, even the fire… Every time, you were there. The fire,” I pause, set my eyeliner down, and look at Clint with tear-filled eyes. “You did more than just save _me_.”

            “You don’t mean…”

            “I do. I know it was just a dream, but in it, you gave me something I wanted more than anything. To see their faces again was… incredible. To hear their voices…”

            “What were they like?” He reaches forward to take hold of my shaking hands.

            “They were truly wonderful people. My father worked at the lumber yard just down the road from where we lived. I remember he sang all the time, even while he was working. The guys originally made fun of him, but he had a beautiful voice, so they started requesting songs. If he didn’t know one, they’d teach it to him, and then he’d come home and sing it to me. We’d go for walks in the woods behind our house, and every now and then, dad would stop singing to tell me stories about the adventures he had in those same woods as a boy.

            “My mother was a teacher, first or second grade depending on the school. She taught me how to read and write at a very young age, determined to take advantage of my willingness to learn. I was her Лисичка, her ‘little fox.’ She was a pianist, but we were too poor to afford a piano of our own, so she mainly played at our local church. That’s where they met. Dad was in the choir, mom was his accompanist. They married the following spring, had me about a year later, and then…”

            “Nat,” Clint whispers roughly, standing to pull me into his arms. I don’t resist, nestling closer to him. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But you’re right, they sound like wonderful people.”

            “If they could see what became of me, what would they think?” I croak, holding back tears.

            “They would see a beautiful, brilliant, strong woman who has overcome so much adversity. They’d be proud to call you their daughter.”

            “But I’ve done so many bad things, Clint.”

            “Sometimes we have to do bad things for the greater good. They would understand.”

            “Who would I be if they had lived?”

            “I don’t know. All I care about is that our paths led us to each other,” he whispers into my hair. I tip my head back so I can see his face, curl my fingers around the nape of his neck, and kiss him with reckless abandon. My hands wander, entangling themselves in the short hairs on the back of his head. His arms, wrapped around my lower back, pull me closer, deeper into the embrace. The flood of emotions brought to the surface by my dreams crash over me, sadness, fear, anger, and love comingling in a confusing wave. But love wins. Nothing else matters in this moment.

            But as usual, my incessantly ringing cell phone shatters the reverie I’ve found myself in. I sigh as I disentangle myself from Clint and reach for my phone.

            “Yes?” I answer, annoyed.

            “Romanoff, where the hell are you?” Nick’s voice explodes from the phone speaker. “You texted me over an hour ago saying you were ready to go! Why haven’t you answered any of my calls?”

            “I answered this one, didn’t I?”

            “Now is _not_ the time for attitude. Have you watched the news yet this morning?”

            “What happened?” I ask, putting all personal feelings aside.

            “I’ll show you when you get here. Group meeting in 5 minutes.” The call ends more abruptly than usual, which is honestly never a good sign with Nick. Something’s clearly wrong, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.

            Clint and I walk into the conference room less than three minutes later looking mostly presentable. Steve is already seated next to Nick and Maria at the head of the ten-foot table. I slide into a chair across from him, anxious about what Nick has to show us. The rest of the team files in a minute or so later in varying states of undress.

            “Since it appears most of you just crawled out of bed, I take it you don’t know what happened this morning.” Nick scans our faces. “A few hours ago, Russian officials found a note on the front door of the Senate building, and the press is having a field day speculating about it. Why does this concern us? A familiar logo was emblazoned at the bottom of the note.” He turns his laptop to face us, a grainy photograph filling the screen. Sure enough, the symbol for the Cult of the Dagger appears as the signature.

            “Shit. Anyone get a good look at what the note says?” I squint, trying to make out the characters.

            “No one outside the government as of right now. But you’re about to change that. I need you to hack into their servers and translate that document.”

            “You do realize that if I get caught, they’ll kill me, right?” I ask, incredulous.

            “Which is why you’re not going to get caught. It’s not like this’ll be the first time you’ve done this.”

            “Right, but getting names of various citizens is a lot less illegal than viewing a classified document.”

            “I don’t care. If you don’t do this, who knows what will happen? There’s no way the government knows about this secret society—it’s possible they won’t take this threat seriously.”

            “How can we be sure it’s a threat?” Steve leans forward, his arms crossed against his chest, elbows on the table in front of him.

            “Don’t be naïve, of course it’s a fucking threat.” Clint rolls his eyes. “Dmitri’s last words were ‘You’ll never be able to stop us.’ Clearly they’ve been planning something for a while now. Besides, why would they reveal themselves to the government if they don’t have some sort of plan?”

            “Fair point,” Steve concedes. “Alright, what can the rest of us do to help?”

            “Continue looking into potential secret society members,” Nick orders. “I assume you’ve at least narrowed the list of possible suspects?”

            “We have.”

            “Good. Keep going with that. As soon as Natasha’s done with her task she can assist the rest of you. Now get to work.” Nick picks up his laptop and leaves the room, Maria following close behind. Well, shit. I guess it’s time for me to hack highly classified government documents.

            “So what’s the plan?” Clint asks on the way back to our room.

            “I’m going to a different hotel or something so my presence can’t be tied to this place, use a public computer, and hopefully be in and out of their servers before I can be traced.”

            “How long do you think you’ll have?”

            “Well, Putin’s already suspicious of everyone, and with this note, they may be on high alert. My guess is under six minutes.”

            “Damn. Want some company?”

            “I’d love some. Plus, it’ll probably look less suspicious if we go in together—no one expects a hacker to have a partner.”

            I change out of my work clothes into something more casual, which will draw less attention. Clint does the same, opting for a basic pair of jeans and a graphic t-shirt. Stowing my phone and room key in my purse, we head out, wandering down side streets, looking for a place with public computers. We’ve gone eight or so blocks before we stumble upon a library. Perfect.

            No one gives us so much as a second glance as we walk in and quickly locate the computers. I pick an empty row near the wall so people won’t be able to walk up behind me and question what I’m doing. Clint sits down at the computer next to mine and opens a web browser.

            “Set a timer for five minutes. If I’m not out of the server by then, we’ll have to pull the plug on this,” I whisper, eyes locked on the screen in front of me.

            “Ready?”

            “Let’s do this.”


	10. Chapter 10

Fingers flying across the keyboard, I make my way through firewall after firewall as quickly as I possibly can. As expected, security’s been tightened. This may take too long.

            “Two minutes, Nat,” Clint whispers as he clicks away at random things on the screen in front of him, trying to look busy to any potential onlookers.

            “Okay, I’m in their main network, but it doesn’t appear they’ve uploaded the file. Either they’re doing things old school, or someone sent it from an outside source,” I respond quietly. “I guess this only leaves me one choice. I have to hack into Putin’s emails.”

            “Are you sure there’s no other way? We’re down to ninety seconds, and you know he’s good at making people disappear.”

            “I know, but this is the only way we’re going to get what we need. Did you bring the flash drive?”

            “Of course.”

            “Okay, on my signal, I want you to plug it in, and I’ll transfer the document. As soon as I do, pull the flash drive back out. I’ll have to cover my tracks, and then we’re out of here.”

            “You aren’t going to print it?”

            “Not here, I don’t have time. They may have tracers attached to the link, so as soon as we plug it back into a computer to print it, they’d be able to find us. Okay, I’m into his email server, and would you look at that, countless emails from his security and staff. Alright, terror threat, where are you?”

            “Forty-five seconds.”

            “Come on, come on, where are you? Here! Okay, go!”

            Clint slides the flash drive into the USB port. I copy and drag the file, careful to take the duplicate instead of the original. Tracers could have been programmed to still be attached to copies, but there’s always the chance that they weren’t smart enough to think of that. Clint pulls the flash drive back out and tucks it into his pocket.

            “Get out of there, Nat. We’re down to thirty seconds,” Clint whispers urgently.

            “I know, I know. Covering my tracks as we speak.” Just as I go to delete the last shred of digital evidence that I was ever here, something pops up on my screen. “Oh no.”

            “Oh no? What’s wrong? Nat, what does that say?” Clint rests a hand on my wrist, his fingers instinctively curling around it.

            “Shit, we need to go. NOW.” I flip the switch on the power strip hooked up to our row of computers, grab my purse, and head for the door.

            “What just happened?” Clint calls after me, worry and confusion saturating his voice.

            “Not here, not now!” I hiss back, attempting to avoid the unwanted stares from the people around us. “We’ll talk about this at home.” We need to play this off as a fight, not a breach of national security that could get everyone here killed. There’s no sense in causing a panic or compromising our true identities.

            We step out into the sunlight, temporarily blinded as our eyes struggle to adjust. The first thing I see as my vision clears is a line of black cars headed our way.

            “No time to explain, follow me.” I turn away from the cars, frantically searching for somewhere we could hide. We walk to the end of the block before breaking into a sprint around the corner. Down side street after side street, we backtrack to our hotel, our serpentine route the only useful defensive tactic I can currently think of.

            “Please tell me you’re keeping track of all these turns,” Clint huffs from just behind me.

            “I’m pretty sure I know where we are.” I slow to a light jog, my heart still racing.

            “Pretty sure? Oh god.”

            “Oh hush. Do you have that burner I asked you to get?”

            “Of course I do, I’m not an idiot.”

            “Good. Call Nick. I don’t think we’ve lost them just yet.”

            “Lost _who_?”

            “Russian secret service. The KGB.”

            “I thought the KGB was dissolved when the Soviet Union broke up.” Clint grabs my elbow, forcing me to stop with him.

            “Publicly, it was dissolved. In actuality, they went underground, training kids in their ways, building up an army no one can oppose. Easy to get in, nearly impossible to get out. Somehow, I did. But they know me, my skill set. And now they know I’m here, which is why we need to keep moving. I promise I’ll explain everything as we pack.”

            “Wait, pack?”

            “We were too close to our hotel; we have to go somewhere else. I refuse to drag you all down due to my mistakes.”

            “Nat—”

            “Not here.” I drag him into the closest store, a women’s clothing outlet. “I’m going to pretend to try a few things on, you play the classic bored husband and call Nick.”

            “Got it. Can you actually try on something for me, though?”

            I follow his gaze to a glittery, floor-length gown, a dozen or so hues of green scattered across the material. The sweetheart neckline dips down a bit more than usual, tiny chartreuse rhinestones decorating the boundary between dress and skin.

            “Really? You want me to try that on?”

            “I think it’ll bring out your eyes.”

            “Alright, who are you, and what did you do with my husband?”

            “I’m serious, Nat! If we’re going to have to hang out here anyway, you might as well make this visit believable. Have a little fun.”

            “…Okay. Call Nick, and I guess I’ll try that dress on.”

            “¿Nick? ¿Hables español, verdad?” Clint mutters into his burner, trying to sound as inconspicuous as possible. “Bueno. Natalia y yo necesitamos ayuda. La policía secreta nos está siguiendo.” A long pause. “No se. Estamos en una tienda de ropa… Sí… Sí… Necesito preguntar a Natalia…. Sí. Un momento. ¿Natalia?”

            “Hold on, almost ready.” With one last awkward stretch, I pull the zipper completely closed. Glancing in the mirror, I can tell that Clint was right: this really does bring out my eyes. The fabric hugs my curves, accentuating my hourglass figure. It pools slightly around my feet, making heels a necessity if I were to actually wear it somewhere.

            I step out of the fitting room, gently closing the door behind me. Clint looks up and immediately stops talking into the phone. His jaw drops a bit before he regains his composure and smiles proudly.

            “Nick, I’m gonna have to call you back.” He hangs up without waiting for an answer. “ _Damn._ Was I right, or was I right?”

            “Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty. What did Nick say?”

            “Oh no, we’re not ignoring this. Give me a spin.” A mischievous glint shines in his eye.

            “Really?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “Honey, we don’t have time for this. Is Nick sending someone to get us, or do we have to wait it out here?”

            “I couldn’t remember what street we were on, so you’ll probably have to talk to him.”

            “What kind of spy are you? Geez, get ahold of your bearings,” I laugh and playfully smack his arm.

            “Sorry, I got distracted by the view in front of me. Now, do you need help getting out of that? I’m a pro at taking clothes off.”

            “We’re in public and on the run from some very bad people,” I scoff, hitting his arm a little harder than before. “Let me just get dressed and we can see if it’s safe to leave.”

            “We’re buying that, right?” Clint asks as I close the fitting room door behind me.

            “Why would we buy it? We’re here to work, not shop.”

            “Because you look _damn_ good in it, and if you bought it, that would at least justify all the time we spent here.”

            “Clint, it’s $400.”

            “I don’t care. It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

            “Fine. If you really want me to get it, go ahead and pay for it.” I toss the hanger over the top of the door.

            “I will. And once this is all over, I’m taking you out for a nice dinner so you have an excuse to wear it.”

            What is happening right now? Clint’s always been more of a romantic than I am, but this is new. Is it because we’ve been a bit more distant ever since the miscarriage?

            “Nat, you almost done in there? We need to go before we’re late for our reservation.”

            “Just a second!” I slip my tennis shoes back on and shake my head slightly, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand: getting away from the KGB. After escaping the first time all those years ago, I thought I was done. Never in a million years would I have guessed they’d be after me again. After everything, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to evade and resist them.

            “Honey, seriously, we’ve got to go!” Clint calls out to me again, his voice sounding more strained than it was a minute ago.

            “Sorry dear, just had to put my shoes on.” I force a smile as I join him at the front counter.

            “That’s alright, I just hope we can find our car outside without too much trouble.” He tips his head ever so slightly toward the front window, directing my attention to the black suburban parked along the curb.

            “I’m sure we’ll be fine. Ooh, honey, can I get this hat while we’re here? It shouldn’t take too long to ring up.” I scoop up a black knitted beanie that should be able to hide my hair—my most recognizable feature.

            “Anything for you, beautiful,” Clint smiles back, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Worry radiates off him, and I hope I only pick up on it because I know him so well, not because it’s painfully obvious.

            I wrap my hair up in a bun and shove as much of it into my beanie as I can. Keeping our heads down, we casually walk out of the store and down the street. A couple blocks later, I start to recognize our surroundings again.

            “Just a little further, and we should be safe.”

            “I wouldn’t bet on that,” an unfamiliar voice says from behind us. The distinct sound of a gun cocking quickly follows. “Now turn around nice and slow, hands on your heads. No funny business, Romanova.” Fuck.

            We come face to face with a 9 mm in the hands of a guy who can’t be older than twenty. He’s young, but he looks strong, his arms toned and muscular. His dark hair is swept away from his face, revealing piercing eyes that look almost like there’s no iris, they’re so void of color. Tattoos peek out from the collar and sleeves of his shirt, red and black ink crisscrossing in various complex patterns across his skin.

            “So, the famous Natalia Romanova decided to show her face in Russia again. What brings you back, sweetheart?” he sneers.

            “Business. What’s it to you?” I tauntingly arch a brow.

            “It means nothing to me personally, but I know a lot of people who have been looking for you. They’re not terribly happy, doll face.”

            “Alright, punk, knock it off with the nicknames. You’re not an Italian mobster, don’t act like one. Clearly, you know who I am. Do I get a name in return?”

            “Only if you behave. Now, who’s this guy?” He points his gun at Clint before quickly shifting it back to me.

            “Wow, the KGB’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to recruits, huh? Sending amateurs who can’t even do their research on me. If you had, I’m sure you’d know all about my associate, Chester Roman.”

            “Hold up. Roman and Romanova? I don’t buy it.”

            “He’s American, you dumbass. It’s a popular last name.” I roll my eyes, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.

            “Wallet. Now.”

            “Chester, dear, will you so kindly produce your billfold for our doubtful friend here?” I turn to Clint, my eyes wandering to the gun he has tucked into the waistband of his pants.

            “Of course, Nat. We wouldn’t want to cause any trouble, now would we?” Clint responds, slowly reaching his right hand behind his back.

            The young man with the gun directs his attention at Clint to make sure he doesn’t try anything. First and final mistake. I simultaneously grab the barrel of his gun and slam my elbow down on his wrist, causing him to instinctively release his grip. A punch to the throat sends him staggering, and I effortlessly sweep his feet out from underneath him. Before he’s had time to process everything that just happened, he finds himself on the ground, Clint and I both aiming guns at his head.

            “The KGB used to actually train recruits to avoid getting disarmed. Man, how far they’ve fallen,” I laugh. “Clint, I’ve got some zip ties in my purse, would you grab some for me? Our new friend is going to be taking a walk with us.”

            “You’re… making… a huge… mistake,” he wheezes as Clint secures his wrists behind his back and hauls him to his feet.

            “Says the kid who pulled a gun on not one, but two Avengers. Come on, let’s go. You’re lucky I didn’t break anything… yet.” I shove him forward, one hand on the zip ties, the other still clutching his gun. “Clint, I think it’s time to call Nick again. Tell him we’re a few blocks away and will need a car. Hold off on sending the kids—this one may get messier.”

            “Messier?” Our new prisoner’s eyes widen. “What do you mean by _messier_?”

            “My last interrogation wasn’t particularly neat. You talk, you get to keep more of your blood, and maybe even some smooth parts of your skin. You wouldn’t want me to permanently mess up that pretty face of yours, now would you?” I chuckle darkly, savoring his terrified expression. He’s a young KGB member, but he’s one of them all the same. I’ve been looking forward to having an opportunity like this since I was originally recruited.

            Nick meets us at the door to the garage, car keys in hand. His eyes scan the three of us, likely evaluating the threat level.

            “Did you at least get what we need before running into this kid?” Nick grumbles.

            “Please, I’m not an amateur,” I scoff. “I’ll print and translate it after we deal with him.”

            “Three hours, Natasha. That’s all the time we can spare. I assume you’re still packed?”

            “Always am, sir.”

            “Excellent. Here,” he tosses the keys to Clint, “I picked up a new rental. You’ll have to get your kits out of the limo. Need any more assistance?”

            “We should be fine on our own.”

            “Alright, if you insist. I’ll contact Hanson and Jones, set up a meeting in two hours. Try not to kill this one, we may need him later on.”

            “No promises.” I stare my soon-to-be victim down so he understands how serious I am. Instilling fear in people is a critical component of my violent interrogation process. It almost never fails.

            We grab our supplies out of the trunk of the limo, using the chloroform to ensure a peaceful car ride before tossing it into the new rental. We reach the warehouse without interruption, not even from Elizaveta and her fellow townsfolk.

            Dead weight is difficult to drag up the stairs and through the twisting hallways, but we can’t risk him trying to run if he wakes before we strap him to a chair. Knowing we likely only have a couple more minutes until the last of the chloroform wears off, we hurry into the building, following the twisted path to the torture room I know all too well. Once he’s secured, I lay out my knife kit in what will be his line of sight.

            “Where am I?” he croaks, eyes slowly opening.

            “Unimportant. Name?” I unfold a straight blade, which for some reason tends to freak people out more than a knife.

            “What?”

            “Your _name_ , punk. Who are you?”

            “A-Artyom,” he mumbles, looking down.

            “I’ll tell Steve,” Clint says before walking out into the hallway, phone in hand.

            “Artyom, why were you following us?” I ask, whirling the blade between my fingers.

            “The… the KGB has been looking for you for years. When they discovered you were here, they asked us to bring you in.”

            “What do you know about me?”

            “Actually, not much. You are on our most wanted list.”

            “Good, good. Now, I’m going to ask again, and this time, you’re going to tell me the truth. What do you know about me?” I growl, blade inches from his chest.

            “What… what do you mean?” Artyom gulps.

            “You’re young, but you’re clearly not new to the KGB because you came after us alone. I know all too well what it’s like to be part of that hate-filled organization and the rigorous training they put recruits through. All of us had intimate knowledge of every perceived threat on the most wanted list. No way would they let you come after one of us without knowing what you were going up against.” With a flick of my wrist, I sever the top five buttons on his shirt, revealing his collarbone. I’m about to start slicing more than just fabric when something catches my eye. “Clint? Come look at this!”

            “What’s up?” He strides back into the room.

            “I showed you the coroner’s report, right?”

            “Of course. Why?”

            “Does this look familiar?” I pull back Artyom’s shirt, revealing a small crest under the left side of his collarbone. In its center is what appears to be a fox.

            “Holy hell…”

            “What’s the meaning behind this tattoo?” I rest the cold blade against Artyom’s throat.

            “There isn’t one! A buddy of mine designed it and I thought it looked cool!” he panics.

            “Wrong answer. I killed a man with this same exact tattoo in the same exact spot. Don’t lie to me!” I press the straight blade against the hollow of his throat until dark beads of blood spring up around it.

            “What? I’m not, I swear, I—Aaah!” His words turn into an indistinct shout as I dig the straight blade into his chest. “Alright, fine! I got it a few years ago when I was recruited. After losing you, the KGB wanted a way to be able to easily identify its members if they ever escaped. There’s a different tattoo for each division, we all have them.”

            “What’s your division called?”

            “κорсáκ.”

            “Oh my god, Dmitri was in the KGB.”


End file.
